Simple Times - For All Time (2000)
by Ellie 5192
Summary: [REPOST] A series of one-shots in the wake of For All Time, exploring the married life of Charles Lattimer and Laura Brown. Posted as a single story for ease of reading/following. Chapters also posted individually as one-shots. Rating of individual chapters will vary.
1. Paperweight

_I was feeling the need to write cavity-inducing fluff, and it turned into cavity-inducing smut. Whatcha gonna do, eh? (Read, review, and enjoy, that's whatcha gonna do!)_

_Title from the Joshua Radin song of the same name._

_**Paperweight **_

She wakes to the sun in her face, her naked breasts exposed – the sheet having bunched at her waist in her sleep. Charles is half awake, his fingers lightly tracing patterns against her flesh in a matter so appreciative she could blush. Surprisingly, her lack of modesty does not inspire the same reaction.

She remembers their wedding night, when he had walked into the bedroom too soon, before she had a chance to don her nightgown, and she had gasped and held it against herself as though to cover those parts he would know soon enough. She had been modest then, not wanting to offend her new husband with her soft lines and faint scars; not wanting him to doubt his choice, despite the fact he had abandoned everything to be with her. Despite her being so sure in everything - except this, apparently.

She had been more timid; more conformed to her time, in complete contrast to him.

Leave it off, he had said with his hungry gaze boring into her, taking the gown slowly from her hands, running his palms from her wrists, softly up her arms, caressing her shoulders, weaving his hands into her loose, long hair. He had kissed her until she forgot her nakedness, and then laid her on the bed and made love to every inch of her body for hours and hours. She had never known passion like it, to stay awake all night with her pulse thrumming and her ears ringing full of his voice.

They now often sleep without bedclothes, the door locked against their housemates - convenient and so very intimate.

She wonders if she would be so bold had she not been married before; not had carnal knowledge before Charles swooned her into his heart and his bed and his impossible way of thinking. She supposes probably not. Her comfort in her body and her sexuality, reticent though it is in her time, comes from many years of tasting the flesh with her first husband, before Mary was born and for a short time after.

If she was a young woman getting married straight out of girlhood, with no idea of what to expect and no understanding of a wedding night, she thinks she would not feel so bold as to lounge in bed, bare to the world. Instead she had married late, and conceived even later. Her first two pregnancies were lost early; her doctors had all but written her off as infertile by the time she fell pregnant with Mary. So many of her peers had married young and started their broods immediately. Laura had waited for a good man to come along, and in Will she found him. A gentle man, who taught her his business and valued her opinion.

But this did not diminish her knowledge of passion and wanting. Will had been kind, but a simple lover - concerned with her pleasure if not particularly deft at delivering to it. She was content and happy, but never overwhelmed.

And then Charles... Charles proved to be on a level she had failed to even bring herself on lonely nights. His awareness of her needs and sweet spots would be uncanny, had he not explained briefly the female sexual revolution that was a lifetime away- the expectation of reciprocity. She had laughed at the absurdity of it, the same way she had scoffed at him in the restaurant over lunch; the same way she laughs at so many of his strange and wonderful ideas. Her peak is to him as important as his own; his desire only increased by her low moans and keens of ecstasy. She thanks the women who are yet to come for their surprising gift to her.

So indeed, lying naked before him, the sun streaming through their curtains, feels as natural as breathing. She does not blush under his sleepy stare, or shy away from his tender and unassuming touch. Her nipples half peak as his finger traces the outer curve of her breast, but it is revelling, not suggestive; something else she was not used to before Charles. She's never had anyone just lie there and worship her before.

She looks him in the eye with a smile. A curl of arousal ripples through her belly.

"Good morning" she whispers. Her elbow resting next to him bends, the backs of her fingertips trace his lips. He half kisses them and smiles.

"Certainly is, ma'am" he drawls, voice husky with sleep.

She giggles at him, a deep smile on her face, her eyes shining. As much as he loves it here, in this time, with her, he also loves to make fun of it at any opportunity. She thinks it's endearing. He thinks much the same about life in Somerville.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to see you stir with the sunrise"

She feels such a rush of emotion when he looks at her that way - an indescribable combination of pride and shyness, and love and guilt. Does she look at him that way too? Pay back to him this adoration that he so freely gives? She feels it in her bones, and certainly hopes he knows; she has never loved anyone as deeply as she loves him.

"You could have woken me" she whispers with a smile, perhaps a little suggestive.

"Laura, it's Saturday" he says with a scrutinising look. "It's the one morning you don't get up for the paper or for church. I would have watched you sleep all day"

She leans in and kisses him fiercely, and his hand quickly tangles in her hair, holding her close. She rolls on top of him and enjoys the feeling of his naked chest against hers, their legs entwined, his half erection digging into her hip - his free hand caressing the dip of her waist, the small of her back. She presses against him just a little - just enough for him to exhale loudly in appreciation.

"So" she preens. "Since we don't have to get out of bed any time soon..."

He openly leers at her, and she giggles again. She hums at him as they look at one another, and she thinks they must look like young newlyweds in that moment. It's not far from accurate; their love is young and they are only a few months wed. Charles makes her feel like a teen again, with her racing heart and easy smiles, so it is not so strange a comparison to make, she thinks, at least in the shelter of their bedroom. Still, this is the only space they indulge this kind of behaviour; everywhere else he is sweet and attentive and open with his love- positively jovial - but only Laura knows the depth of his passion. She loves holding that knowledge close.

"I love you" he says to her, feather-soft and achingly tender.

"I positively adore you" she replies with a smug smile. She feels no shame or reserve in letting him know, and given how thoroughly he has proven his intentions, she knows it is reciprocated. He gave up literally everything for the chance of sharing a life with her. "I am so lucky - so unbelievably grateful to have you in my life, Charles Lattimer" she says, running her hands through his hair. "You are the most extraordinary man I have ever had the pleasure to know, and I am proud to call you my husband"

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Lattimer. All mine" He kisses her again, their eyes slipping closed. "All mine" he repeats on a whisper, his lips against her lips and his hands running the length of her back and sides. It feels possessive in the most flattering way; like she is his whole world, held gently in his hands; like he is loath to let her go even for a moment.

He gently rolls them, never breaking their kiss, and settles between her legs, his weight held on one elbow, his other hand continuing to trace her shoulder, breast, hip, dips between her legs to caress her. She holds him to her with one hand threaded in his hair, and the other reaching between them. They have time yet before the rest of the house wakes; hours before they are expected in the kitchen for breakfast. The sun has only just arisen and the weekend calls for lazy days and less work.

All the time in the world.

She moans very softly as he slides inside her, slowly and carefully. He is always so mindful - takes his time not to hurt her. He kisses her deeply, stopping just as he hits her limit, and they spend a short while lavishing each other with their mouths, her hands unabashedly exploring a path over his back, his arse, his legs, and back again - up into his hair to hold their kiss steady.

He presses just a little against her, one hand on her hip, and she moans in encouragement, spurring him on, begging with a tilt of her pelvis and a nip to his chin.

He does it again.

Satisfied by her response, he draws himself out just a little and slides slowly back in - more of a gentle push than a deep hit. She still makes a noise deep in her throat, her head tilting back in pleasure.

She can tell by his movements that he intends to make deep, slow love to her all morning; that he will not deliver her a quick and sharp release, but will draw it out for as long as they can bear, rocking just enough to create a sweet burn. She can never deny him the opportunity, not when he is so faithful in seeking her climax, and the feeling of him moving deliberate and steady inside her is so profound. She opens her eyes and looks at him, and the connection between them makes her spine flush hot and cold. A small shudder runs through her. He smiles.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on" he whispers, watching her eyes flicker half closed as he pushes inside her again. It does not betray the memory of Kris to say so; Laura is the woman in his dreams, the woman he knew before he met; the one who stole his heart at first sight and gave him a home, a life, a family. Laura is his peace, and in that he finds his awe of her, unlike anything his old life had to offer.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" she asks, her voice husky but lucid. It's something she read in a book once. She'd thought the idea ludicrous until-.

"I do now"

She smiles at him in pure joy. He looks so playful and yet so honest. She knows he means it; knows from everything he has told her that the experience of coming to Somerville has changed so many things he thought he knew. She can't deny that her own foundations have shaken, shifted, settled again around the knowledge of him and how he came into her life. Her forgiveness had been quick; no matter what his journey entailed there was no denying he had left everything to come back and save her, and her daughter, and the townspeople. His explanations had almost paled in comparison to the realisation that she meant so much to another person.

"I believe you're mine" he adds. He punctuates with a firm, deep thrust of his hips, and she lets out a whimpering moan - a broken sound in the back of her throat. He shushes her with a muffled chuckle, kissing a line down her jaw. Their housemates are not light sleepers this close to breakfast.

"You give my life meaning" he whispers. "Such joy... and love"

She wraps her palm into his hair and pulls his lips to hers, her tongue dancing against his with ferocity. This time he moans, and she smiles against the kiss. He makes her smile a ridiculous amount. Not even her mother can dislike him when the house is in such good spirits.

She hadn't needed his reassurances regarding how he got here, though they had sat by the stream and talked for hours once the commotion had died down. He told her all about his childhood and his youth – when he was born, what kind of world he knew and lived in – things that they would never see in this new lifetime. He explained all about Kris, and the early years of their marriage, and she felt comfortable enough to share some of her life with Will too. He had told her about modern careers and lifestyles, and how he and Kris had started on different pages and continued wanting different things, and how it all came to a head when he arrived that first day in Somerville.

He told her that when he first laid eyes on her – first fell in love with her - his marriage had been all but over. He almost cried, seeking her forgiveness for not being strong enough, not putting a stop to it, not being honest with her about everything in the beginning. For loving her when it was not his place. For allowing her to feel the same for him.

She moans as he thrusts hard and sure inside her, kissing her to muffle the noise. "Where did you go?" he whispers, meeting her eyes again.

She grins up at him. "I was recalling the day by the river" she says, "when you came back"

He smiles at the memory. It had started as a difficult conversation, but it had been worth it by the end, to have all the secrets in the open and all the confusion and hurt eased. Laura had trusted him at the gazebo, and loved him at the river; it was not hard to forgive him now that he was here to stay. Especially in the aftermath of him saving her life.

They had kissed again, that afternoon, slower and gentler than the first time.

_Can we start again? I need to prove myself to you. I want to see you, and take you to lunch again. Court you. Laura… will you allow me to love you? _

She smiles in return. "It was a good day" she says, arching her back and moving against him in a counter-rhythm. He encourages her to actively participate in their lovemaking – to move with him, and talk to him, let him know what she likes and what she doesn't. To tell him what she's comfortable with and not, and if she wants to try anything new. She'd never had that before. She knows what she prefers, and he is happy to indulge her, and they are never disappointed in bed. She is never disappointed in anything to do with her husband.

_For as long as you will have me, Charles. _

She hadn't known then how serious he would take her words until he was standing before her not two weeks later with a ring in his hand, asking her to marry him. It was quick and sudden, and their romance only newly rekindled. He had spent his first real pay cheque to buy the ring; he sent off sketches to anyone who would pay him while assisting for a reduced wage at her paper. It never occurred to her that this was him proving himself worthy.

She never doubted him to begin with.

_Yes_, she had said, without a single breath of hesitation. He is on her permanent payroll now, which smarts with her mother and makes Fred laugh. He defers to her in almost everything, still learning how things work and what is acceptable and how he should behave. He refuses to sacrifice his principles or hers for the sake of the times, and they make a good fit that way. He is her greatest ally, and her fiercest supporter, and she is proud to walk down the street on his arm, head held high against the naysayers. She does not doubt herself in her answer, just as she does not doubt that Mary will be well cared for, and they will have a happy marriage and a sweet and kind life.

_Laura, I don't expect an answer right away, if you need time to-_

_Indecision is for the young. I know what I want in my life Charles, and there will be no man I love after you. If you can live with my odd ways and love my family as it comes, then I would be honoured to be your wife._

"You are incredible" he mutters into her ear, kissing a slow trail down her shoulder, her collar, her breast, flicking her nipple with his tongue while he continues his slow move inside her. She huffs so as not to moan outright, and runs her nails lightly along his back. He comes up again to kiss her with a serene expression.

"I don't think you realise how unorthodox your proposal was" she says to him with a playful grin.

"I do now. You made a point to explain that to me, if you recall" he replies, and they lose their synchronicity a little as they both laugh into each other's shoulders. His deference to her in that matter only set the pace for the rest of their marriage, after all.

He pulls up onto his elbows and slows, stopping altogether and gently nudging her knee flat, and she knows what to expect. She rolls with him, settling herself on top of him, and then smirks at him as they get comfortable in this new position without him slipping out of her. She leans on her elbows, her forearms tucked under his shoulders in as much of an embrace as she can manage in this position. Gently, so as not to strain her muscles, he reaches around and draws her knees forward and up close to his ribs, forcing her to sit higher and her hips to angle differently. Her eyes slip closed in pleasure as the pressure inside changes to accommodate. She can't help but rock against him.

He smiles up at her as he gently nudges her to sit up, his palms tracing a line from her thighs, her hips, her stomach, to cup her breasts. Her eyes flutter shut as he flicks her nipples with his thumbs and thrusts his hips just enough to encourage her.

This is one position that was very new to her – broad daylight, sitting astride him, rocking slowly as he so blatantly admires her. She loves it. Charles is so appreciative of her body, and so unashamed to look at every inch as she brings them both higher. His unwavering gaze makes her feel so… she can't even describe it. Powerful, and sexy, and brazen in a way she cannot admire outside this room but that she embraces when she is here with him. It gives her immense pleasure to watch his eyes cloud over and his heart pound beneath her palm at the mere sight of her above him.

"I love seeing you like this. So open…" he whispers. She whimpers lightly as she meets his eyes and holds them. His gaze is focused and intense, and reveals so clearly his passion for her.

"It is the most exquisite feeling" she replies. Her voice is high and reedy, different from her usual measured timber. That she gets herself off on him makes this all the more erotic – her confidence in their lovemaking came swiftly after that first night, and he is overwhelmed that he is the one to bring this out of her and achieve this for her.

One hand abandons her breast and slides down, and she knows what to expect. He presses his palm flat against her womb for a moment, pushing in time to her slow sway, creating sweet pressure. Then his thumb inches lower, collects wetness from where they join, and draws small circles against the spot that sends her flying.

Her head falls back and she just barely catches a sound in her throat as he works her at a pace that will see her peak very shortly. If his own laboured breathing is anything to go by, he is valiantly searching her release before finding his own.

"Come for me Laura" he whispers. She whimpers again. She is not used to dirty talk – a request so blatant and unabashed. She is ashamed to admit just how much she likes it, but then he obviously knows that; he does it often enough. "That's it. Come for me" he repeats. Her eyes snap open, and she rides the final summit. "Fly. Please. I love to watch your face as you come, as I help you there, feel you, with me inside you-"

His words do the trick. Her glassy eyes look at him, and then suddenly and all at once her body shudders, and her head drops forward, and the hand that was on her breast gently clamps over her mouth to muffle the low rumbling moan that escapes her. He feels a surge of wetness all around him, and she becomes limp as she rides the final swell, and then drops in stages on top of him, boneless and breathless.

He rubs her back, from small to neck, encouraging her to come off her high at her own pace.

"I love you" he whispers in her ear. "I love you, so much. You are my world, my life, my love… I love you Laura"

She pants at him, unable to speak, and raises herself just a little on shaky arms. She looks down at him and smiles – a wide, satisfied, almost dopey grin – before leaning in and kissing him. It's wet, and sloppy, and passionate, and so very thankful. He smiles into the kiss, slowly nudging and adjusting so they can roll back over without breaking apart. She whimpers again as he hits deep while settling and he kisses her in apology, but rocks again, softer this time.

"Come inside me, Charles" she whispers to him, her voice drowsy. He lets out a groan of his own, buried in the juncture of her neck, as she runs her palms up and down his back and her feet against his calves. She is spent and lazy, but wants him to find his release – treasures the feel of him inside her just as much as he loves the sight of her above him. "Just come inside me"

He wastes no time in setting a pace that will see him there quickly. They had thoughtfully pulled the bed forward just a fraction, to prevent the ornate frame from hitting the wood panelling. It is mornings like this that she is glad for foresight, no matter how much she had blushed when he'd suggested it with an impish grin. The others had stayed in town on their wedding night, and she'd learned the full meaning of 'shake the walls'; it was a good idea, really.

His breath comes short and sharp against her throat, his lips resting there periodically. She bends her knees up to allow him just a little more, and he groans, his thrusts becoming uneven.

"That's it" she whispers. "Yes. Inside me. I want to feel you"

He pants louder against her skin, his eyes clenched. She reaches her hands up and cups his cheeks - "Look at me" – and his eyes open and meet hers. "I love you" she whispers. She smiles at him. Then she gently pulls him into a firm kiss that muffles his deep moan as he thrusts a few hard times and falls hot inside her, their skin humming, their eyes closed.

She releases him from the kiss to allow him to catch his breath as his hips twitch against her, the aftershocks coursing through him. She threads a hand through his hair and holds him close as he breathes into her shoulder, tasting her skin, coming back to himself. She can feel him soften inside her, and when he lethargically rolls off and to the side, he slides out, leaving a trail of wet on her thigh. She ignores it as she curls into his side, his arms remaining around her and drawing her close. Her head ends up on his chest and she smiles, one arm thrown over him, their legs tangled.

"What an encore" he whispers, his eyes still closed.

She giggles into his chest, surprised and delighted. Last night had not been so slow, but it was certainly passionate. "An encore indeed"

He blindly reaches over the side of the bed and collects his nightshirt from the floor rug, abandoned last night in haste and needing a wash anyway. He passes it to her and she makes quick work of wiping herself up with a clean edge – and him gently too - before depositing it back in its resting place.

"I have to say, we make a great pair"

"We do indeed, sir, we do" She hums her contentment and pulls the sheet just a little higher over her shoulders, the morning air chilly on her sweat-soaked skin. "Oh, I love you" she sighs happily.

"Because I'm a good lay?"

She makes a choking noise at him, outraged so suddenly that her mouth drops open. She looks up at him, scandalised, and he openly laughs at her, amused by her violent reaction. She pulls a face and whacks him on the chest, dropping gracelessly back into his side. "I should get out of this bed this very instant"

"You won't. You love me too much"

"Fortunate for you, that's true" she mumbles. He chuckles at her again, and can feel her smile against his skin, even if he can't see it. Sometimes it is just too easy to tease her, and too satisfying to see her reactions. He loves when she lets go around him and acts herself – her true self – though she feels self-conscious much of the time. He often has to assure her that she's positively chaste compared to what he's used to, and given how open and free he acts around her, she is getting better at letting go of propriety, at least in private. Most days she can give as good as she gets.

"I am the luckiest man on earth" he mutters into her hair.

"Because I'm a good lay?"

He bursts into a chesty laugh – very loud in comparison to the quiet of the morning - clutching her tight against him in pure adoration as he fails to contain his amusement. She grins openly at him, and he meets her eye before bursting into another round of chuckles. She laughs along with him.

"You are something else" he says, shaking his head at her, his eyes shining. She leans up and kisses him soundly, smiling against his lips, humming in confirmation.

They settle back into the sheets, content to enjoy a few moments of unadulterated cuddling, the sun now firmly in the sky. They'll make a picnic later, and all go down by the stream, maybe take the fishing poles. Mary will jump across the rocks while the two of them walk calmly barefoot through the shallows, and her mother sits comfortably in the shade on the bank, content to watch over them.

They'll come up to the house and tend to the vegetable garden, muck out the stall for their one horse they bought, and perhaps she'll make a dough for bread, since her mother's arthritis has been bothering her of late.

They'll sit by the fire in the early evening, warding off the chill as Mary practices her reading out aloud, and Charles sketches, and Laura and her mother tend to the mending, or knitting a scarf for next winter, or darning socks for Walt.

It will be a perfect day, but it will come in time. For now, they lie in bed and enjoy the comfort of each other, and the contentment of saying nothing yet feeling everything. His fingertips run lazy patterns up and down her arm, and hers play against his chest. She presses light kisses to his skin every once in a while. It feels positively decadent.

"Are you happy here, Charles?" she asks. She knows full well what his answer will be.

He smiles and kisses the top of her head, squeezing her tight, all but laughing at her. "Am I happy here?" he mocks her, looking down at her grinning face. She knows it's a ridiculous question to ask, but sometimes she just likes to make sure. She nods at him, her tongue sticking between her teeth, her eyes dancing with mirth. He turns serious without losing his playfulness, and answers her question. "I am the most content I have ever been my entire life" he says. He sounds so earnest that she can't help but hum, a high little sound full of emotion. They kiss again.

There is a sudden pounding on the door, and a muffled voice shouts out. "I'm heading down to start breakfast, if you two would like to make yourselves decent and join us"

Charles snorts and silently laughs while throwing his free hand over his eyes. She buries her face against him and scoffs, half amused and half horrified. They hear the footfalls of Mrs Clark walking down the stairs, and the indistinct voice of Mary in the parlour, and he groans his acquiescence.

"At least your mother waited until we were done" he mutters. She throws him a pained expression but says nothing. Before they can leave the bed he stops her and kisses her firmly once more. "Hey. I love you"

She grins at him. "I love you too" she replies easily. They both get out of bed and find clothes that are covered enough for breakfast. The perfect Saturday awaits them, and she can't say there is a single thing in her life that she regrets in this very moment.

"You know, one of these days I'm going to take you to the motel in town, just you and me, and I promise you we are not leaving that room for two solid days"

And, okay, so maybe she regrets that they have chores to do and their anniversary seems so very far away. But it's a small price.


	2. Anywhere Your Love Goes

_Because somebody asked for it, a sequel to my story Paperweight. Can stand alone, and is very fluffy and light. Inspired by the song of the same name by Joshua Radin (I'm noticing a theme with him and this pairing). I also think this might not be the end of this little series, because I already have another idea in mind. God help me, another series._

_As always, read and enjoy. Let me know what you think._

_**Anywhere Your Love Goes**_

"Shit"

He practically throws up his hands in frustration as the expletive leaves him on a mutter, almost without thought. "Stupid thing" he grumbles. He's been dropping type all day like a damn butterfingers, and if he doesn't get this page done in the next fifteen minutes it's not going to make this edition.

"You certainly have a mouth on you, Mr Lattimer"

He loses some of his bite at the sound of her voice behind him, and smiles to himself, her words familiar and amusing. He didn't hear her come in. He turns around, glad for just a single moment of peace before he tries to tackle the type again. Unfortunately, she is not alone, and he immediately makes awkward eye contact with his mother-in-law. The scowl on her face is evidence enough that she also heard him.

Laura, for her part, is smirking at him at an angle that her mother can't see, her eyes shining. She thinks it's hilarious, and is biting the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing at him.

"Evening, Mrs Clarke. I didn't realise you'd come into town today" he says cordially, tipping his head.

"Mr Lattimer" she greets coolly. She likes him really, but she still finds him odd. And she doesn't approve of the way he works for Laura and allows her free reign in her paper business. Any expectation she'd had that settling down would temper her daughter's spirits was quashed by the fact that Charles loves and respects Laura's work. He encourages her to be passionate, and Mrs Clarke cannot like that on principle, much as she's glad to see her daughter happy once again. Also, she despises cursing - the devil's tongue – so he's really not having a good day.

"How many times must I ask you to call me Charles?" he asks kindly, choosing to ignore her icy demeanour in favour of charming her with a smile. It almost works.

"Evidently, at least once more" she says back, prim as can be. Although she is almost smiling, and he takes that as a victory, especially as she just heard him cussing.

"Mother came into town with me this morning to run errands and go visiting. She's come to collect the cart and go home before it gets dark" says Laura, setting down her small basket on the bench top.

"Will you be alright on the roads at dusk, Mrs Clarke, or can I ride with you?" he asks. He really hopes she doesn't take it the wrong way.

"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home, thank you Mr Lattimer. I was operating a horse and cart long before you were born"

Her softer tone belays her snippy words, and she inclines her head in gratitude. He still feels like she's sizing him up some days, despite it being six months since the wedding. He doesn't want his helpfulness to be misconstrued as an insult to her age, but he does worry about those unsealed roads once the light starts to give. The house is not so far out of town that it's a half-day ride, but it's not walking distance either. It's a small farm, and all the land that such a property entails. He'll gladly accompany her, hostility and all, if it means she gets home safe.

Laura just smirks at the two of them and hands her mother a bundle to take with her. Mary is no doubt playing outside somewhere and will go back with her grandmother, so at least she won't be alone on the trip. He and Laura will stay back to finish the evening edition – an idea he'd suggested to increase her circulation. It had taken a bit to get set up, and required that he work with her and Fred full time, but their revenues had slowly increased, and the extra set of hands had gone a long way to keeping the paper new and fresh. Now they are on par with her competitor – almost outselling him – and the extra money from Charles' sketches sent to the city allow them comfort if not overt luxury.

"Make sure Mary does her sums tonight" says Laura to her mother. "Her teacher said she's behind on them"

"That child has your obstinacy"

Laura just smiles serenely, practically smug. "She does, doesn't she. Refusing to do her homework, playing outside-"

"- being pigheaded when I try and sit her down to her needle work, ignoring my lessons in the kitchen, failing to see the merits of a tidy room"

Laura just laughs at her mother and shakes her head as they walk towards the door. Mary isn't that bad, and she's improving her domestic skills every day. Mrs Clarke huffs and puffs, and perhaps is stubborn herself with the old ways. But Charles knows what is ahead, and the times that Mary will hopefully see, and he indulges her vivacity because he knows some day she'll need it. There will be wars and depression and a revolution for women, and he never wants to temper the girl's spirit when it will one day serve her so well.

Charles shares a private look with Laura over her shoulder; they are on the same page in this at least, if her smirk is anything to judge.

"Get home safely" says Laura in farewell.

"See you later Mrs Clarke" called Charles, waving over his shoulder. He gets a hum in return, but at least he's acknowledged. He watches Laura escort her mother to the door, and then hears Mary bound up the stairs to give a kiss goodbye, and Laura gives a muffled warning about the dreaded sums in return. He smiles at them all and turns back to his type. He has five minutes before they need to start printing. He reads over the articles again with trepidation.

"You are so funny"

He turns and smiles at his wife, standing there with her hands on her hips grinning at him. She looks radiant with her hair half fallen out from the day, wearing the green skirt and grey vest he'd first seen her in when he arrived.

"You think being caught swearing by your mother is amusing?" he mocks, quirking his brow at her. She only chuckles at him and walks forward to investigate what has him so upset. He kisses her neck, just behind her ear, when she leans close, and she hums but continues reading. "You smell nice" he whispers at her. She smells like honey, or something else sweet.

"I was in the store collecting us some supper" she answers, gesturing behind her to the basket she was carrying when she walked in. "You know, these articles can wait for the morning edition" she says, running her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, sensing his tension to get it done. "Leave it for now"

"Are you sure? I can finish them quickly"

"They'll keep. They aren't exclusive news"

He gives a deep breath and then nods, admitting defeat. She presses her lips to the top of his hair. With the way he's been all afternoon he'd probably just mess it up anyway, which would make them late on starting the printing and even later getting home tonight. It's been a long week; he doesn't want to cut into his sleep time over a measly few articles. She picks them up and kisses his cheek sweetly, then walks over and places them in the 'tomorrow' pile on her bench.

"If we get a start on the printing early then we can leave early too. Maybe get home in time to read with Mary before bed"

"That would be nice" he says with a smile. Some nights they make it for those little moments and some they don't – the downside to having a second printing is they get home that much later, even with Fred's help. They only print two copies on days when there is additional news; some days the second edition is no more than a glorified pamphlet for people to peruse over their supper, and on the rare quiet days they don't print one at all. But still, customers pay for the option of receiving them as they come, and Laura is the better writer in the town; the extra revenue helps keep the place going, so nobody's really complaining about the hours, except Mrs Clarke. She doesn't really count.

Charles is secretly hoping to build a nice little nest egg. Perhaps even have enough to send Mary to a good college when she is through school, which will no doubt scandalise her grandmother. He hasn't told Laura this, of course, because he doesn't want to count their chickens before they've hatched. But he has long-term plans in mind, and with the bonus of hindsight (or is it foresight?) he can predict exactly what they will need and when, and protect it.

"Would you like some cheese?" asks Laura, gesturing to the basket.

"You got me cheese?" he asks. She smiles and nods, holding up a small chunk and some dry crackers. "What other goodies are you hiding in there?" he asks slyly, walking over to her. She giggles and steps in front of the basket half-heartedly, blocking him. He crowds her space with a raised eyebrow, and then leans down close, lips almost touching, while one hand snakes behind her and collects the basket, rummaging for the first thing he finds. He reveals the small salami roll with a triumphant smirk, and then rewards her with a kiss.

It's a decadent supper – reminiscent of a Sunday picnic more than a substantial evening meal. And it's early to be eating; still late afternoon. But he's not complaining, because they have the next couple of hours in each other's company, and a fairly light print to do, and then it's home time. No doubt Mrs Clarke will be cooking a fresh loaf of bread with her store purchases today, so if they get hungry later they can always sneak a slice.

Laura turns in his arms and procures a knife from the basket, cutting a slice of both cheese and salami, then stacking them together and reaching to put it in his mouth. It's a good thing they are alone in the store, because the look between them is certainly a private one, and his tongue darting out to take the food could be considered indecent. He's not sure; this time and place still sometimes confuses him.

"Good?" she asks, her voice quiet and low.

"Oh yeah" he says, raising an eyebrow at her. "Real good"

She just smirks shyly and turns back to their food, cutting herself some and popping it in her mouth. He runs a hand appreciatively over her hip, but doesn't do more. There are still windows, and they have work to do before it gets dark. As it is they'll be riding home by lamplight. He rode in on his own horse this morning while the girls brought the cart a bit later. It will be an interesting journey home, he thinks, if they don't hire a second nag for the night. He might just enjoy it.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, grinning at the look on his face.

"Getting you home"

She chuckles at him, bashful at his honesty. He kisses her cheek and then graciously steps away before he really does compromise the situation. He pulls up two stools to the bench and they sit and eat, talking about their respective days. Laura had left him earlier to collect Mary from school and meet with her mother, and they'd all called in to see one of her mother's old friends. Mary had been bored stiff, and begged to go out playing with her friends from school. So Laura had left Mrs Clarke and escorted the girl down the street, to secretly escape the wrath of opinions coming from Isla Gregson's parlour.

"You made a good impression with Mrs Gregson, though. In spirit, at least. She greatly approved of me calling on her while you were busy slaving over the printing press, earning your keep"

He gives her look for her teasing, which just makes her smile more. Everyone in town knows that he and Laura work together, and most know that she is his boss in ownership and action. He has yet to meet anyone here who approves of it, and really his mother-in-law is the least of his worries. She secretly likes him. (Not that anyone would blatantly admit to disliking him. Laura's new editorial columns make them afraid to speak out when so many of them buy her business. But not everyone is family and therefore obligated to live with his actions. The looks and subtle digs are indication enough)

"Does it ever bother you?" he asks.

"Does it bother you?" she counters. They've had this discussion - they had it when he first started working for her. He is not ashamed to be his wife's employee. And besides, he has his sketching on the side to call his own. Many other papers outside of Somerville buy his illustrations, either as comics or as advertising. He is earning a decent wage in his own right, so nobody can accuse him of being a dead-beat dependant husband.

"Of course not" he answers. "I'm just concerned that my working here gives you more grief than it's worth"

"Charles, business is up, and it's thanks to you. Your encouragement, and the hours you put in here, implementing your ideas and helping with the new editions. Of course I don't mind you being here. I get to see you and spend time with my husband every day, which is more than a lot of wives can say"

"You're not sick of me yet?" he jokes. Of course, she can hear a hint of insecurity in his tone, and she doesn't begrudge him that. He came back here to stay solely for her; if she rejected him in any way he would literally have nothing.

"I could never be sick of you" she says honestly. "I mean, if nothing else, you're the most interesting time-traveller I've ever spoken to" He pulls a face at her mocking and takes an exaggerated bite out of his cracker and cheese. She just grins at him. "But if you do ever want a change, you must tell me. I won't have you turning miserable out of deference to me"

"I know"

She nods at him, content that he is so obviously happy here. They finish their supper in easy silence, sharing looks between them, and laughing at each other over the silliest things. It's carefree and sweet in a way he craved for so long. Sometimes he pinches himself just to be sure it's still real.

They pack away the food once they've had their fill. There is still some salami and cheese left that Laura packs tight in their white linen wraps to store at home, and Charles has a secret plan to make pizza for the family on the weekend. Of course, it will require Mrs Clarke's help to make the dough, and they'll have to forgo tomato paste since he's not really sure of a recipe. But they have a whole veggie patch to use, and now the added toppings from today, and he knows it will shock them all if he does it successfully. Mary will be absolutely beside herself. It is pizza after all.

They finish the printing just as the sun is lowering behind the horizon, the sky glowing with the last of the daylight. It will be pitch black by the time they get home, but at least they'll start without the lamp.

Walt's eldest boy comes over to deliver the papers in the evening for them, since he is twelve and looking for any pocket money he can get. Walt and his wife (and Charles had been a little surprised to learn he was married with four children) live in the house at the edge of the town, close enough to the farmland that Walt can easily ride back and forth. The foreman's cottage near the house had gotten too small when the youngest was born, and Laura didn't mind not having him next door so long as they were happy and comfortable and the fences were mended.

Once Thomas is away safely with his armful, they snuff out the lamps and lock the doors for the night. She had left her shawl in the wagon with her mother and shivers a little in the evening breeze. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders, and she grins at him in thanks. Mr Peterson walks past and tips his hat at them, smiling as he catches the gesture, and Laura and Charles smile back. He is a kind man, and never judges – he has known Laura in passing for a long time, and knows she deserves the kind of attention her new husband bestows on her. She slides her arms into the sleeves and takes a deep breath, Charles' aftershave wafting around her. She likes it.

She catches Charles staring at the sky where the sun disappeared, admiring the orange and pink and purple that play against the clouds. Even now, all these months later, he is still taken by the size of it, the scope of the landscape here. Sometimes they ride through the fields or walk by the stream, just taking it all in. Through his eyes she appreciates her home all the more – likes the fresh air and the smell of wood fire that Charles finds so different. He has promised her a trip to the big city when they can spare the time, and she looks forward to it. But nothing is much like home.

She slips her hand in his, resting her cheek against his shoulder, watching with him. In her other hand she holds her small basket. He looks at her and smiles, taking the subtle hint that they should get going before there is no light. They round to the stables where he keeps his gelding during the day – a handsome young thing named Buckle that they had invested in for Charles, cheaply bought if only because he would not gallop at the track one town over. Honestly, Charles has no problem with that.

"Hey Buck" he coos lightly, stroking the horse's neck as he expertly manoeuvres him out of his stall. The horse is slow and a bit dopey, but has a sweet nature that makes him friendly to handle. He has only a bridle on, and she looks around for the saddle, not finding it. Charles is far more comfortable on horses now than when he first arrived, more out of necessity than anything, and she loves to watch him with animals. He has a knack. But she was sure he rode in this morning with a saddle. Charles takes the saddle rug hanging on the gate and throws it over the horse's back, but doesn't move to find any more tack, and she is very confused.

"Have I missed something, or is there only one horse?" she says pointedly, raising one eyebrow, her hands on her hips, and grinning at him. "How do you propose we're getting home?"

He doesn't respond but instead just smirks, and then takes her hand gently and leads her closer, standing her with her back to Buckle's side. "Ready to jump?"

"Jump?"

But before she can comprehend what is happening she is instinctively pushing off the ground to help him, his hands under her arms hoisting her onto the horse sideways. Her eyes go wide and her right hand reaches out and grasps a fistful of mane firmly, getting her balance. He doesn't let her go until she is seated right, and she huffs at him, giving him a look. She takes the reins that he silently hands her, pulling them to a workable length as he makes sure again that she's steady. He passes her the small basket at his feet, setting it on her lap.

And then somehow – and she'll never understand how – he places one hand with hers at Buckle's withers, and launches up behind her, settling on the horse's back with his arms around her. Miraculously they don't fall off, and she won't deny that her heart leapt at the thought that they might, with her going backwards towards a cracked head.

But no, her husband is as competent as he projects – he shuffles flush against her, his arms secure against her waist as he takes the reins around her, and she can't help but let out a peel of girlish giggles. This is utterly ridiculous and she loves it.

"So you see, this is how we'll get home"

She laughs at him again, careful not to pitch forward and upset their balance. He laughs along with her, his breath tickling her ear, and she cannot help but look at him and kiss him. Her sideways position makes this much easier, and though they don't deepen the kiss, they do linger long enough for Buckle to snort at them.

She is not sitting in a traditional side-saddle posture, turned forward to control the horse. Instead she remains sitting completely perpendicular, her shoulder resting against Charles' chest, snuggling as much as she can. She snakes her arm around his back, bringing them closer and settling herself further within his centre of gravity.

They slowly make their way out of the stables and onto the country road, the light now faded to a soft purple and light blue, the deeper colour on the opposite horizon threatening to overwhelm them soon. No matter; she has the small lamp in the basket on her lap if they need it, though if they stay in the middle of the road they should be fine.

The crickets and insects are in full flight in this light, so loud it almost hurts, and they just amble along to the sound, content in each other's company. They couldn't go at a faster pace anyway, not with how they're sitting, but it's still nice to think they're just meandering home.

"This is a crazy, harebrained, completely wonderful idea" she sighs, her left hand playing in the shirt around his back. She practically snuggles into his jacket, and he grins down at her.

"I didn't even think of it until I realised you'd come in with you mother" he admits. "I'll have to ride back in the morning without a saddle"

She laughs at him – at how he obviously didn't think this through very thoroughly when he got the notion in his head to tandem ride her home.

"We could have hired another horse for the night" she says. It's a half-hearted suggestion at best; they wouldn't want to waste the money, and this is far too lovely anyway. "But tomorrow it won't matter. You can come in the wagon with me, and we'll just collect the saddle and bring it home"

He doesn't really respond, just hums a sound of agreement and nuzzles her ear with his nose. She sighs in utter contentment and rests her weight more fully into him, her palm flattening against his back. She is conscious of not shifting around too much – Buckle's coat is slick and shiny beneath the rug and one wrong move will see them slide right off. She feels vulnerable with her legs on one side, but she doesn't let her anxiety show because she trusts her husband. Even if they do slip, he will catch her fall. Maybe that should grate against her more independent ways, but it doesn't; love does funny things like that.

"I've never ridden bareback at dusk" she says softly, her voice low and deep. "It's very romantic"

"But you've ridden bareback before?"

"Oh yes, here and there. As a girl, Walt and I would catch the pony in the yard and ride him around – oh, his father would get so cross at us" She laughs at the memory. "And then when I was a bit older, we'd take two of the farm horses down by the stream, let them drink while we skipped stones"

"Sounds idyllic" he says, smiling at the look on her face as she recalls her childhood.

"It was simple. Silly, really, since they were supposed to be working horses. But we had a lot of fun"

"You and Walt-" he starts, not accusatory so much as just curious. "Were you-?"

"What, sweethearts?" He can't tell if she's teasing him or not, but they're both smiling at each other, so it's not a threatening conversation to have. He shrugs at her. "No, not really. I think we imagined ourselves to be, when we were very young and didn't even know what a sweetheart was" she says, almost laughing at herself, shaking her head. "But his father worked for my father – they lived in the house next to mine, so we spent so much time together. He was my best friend growing up, especially after my brother passed"

Charles knew she'd had a younger brother; three years younger, if he remembered right. The boy had caught whooping cough when he was barely school age. Charles doesn't have to have come from this time to know how dangerous the infection is, given the fastidiousness of vaccination in the future. He never told Laura that they developed vaccines for so many common things – doesn't want to rub salt in wounds he cannot change. Laura was eight when her brother passed – Mary's age - and she still sometimes thinks of him; wonders if perhaps her mother gives her such a hard time because she doesn't have a boy to harass about the farm, so her daughter picks up the slack. Charles is glad to know Laura wasn't alone in those hard times, and that quiet and stalwart Walt was a steady presence for her, just as he is now.

"By the time we were old enough to understand, he had a crush on Abigail O'Grady" she says, smirking to herself over some joke he doesn't understand. Although, given Walt's wife's name is Rebecca, he thinks the tale is clear enough. He grins along with her.

"And you? Who was your first school-girl crush?" he teases, guiding the horse carefully around the last bend before home.

"Edward Marks" she drawls, giving herself a rueful look as she thinks back to the tall boy that sat in the seat next to her at school. He had been very cute, but arrogant, and his looks had not followed him so well into adulthood. She knows it is spiteful, but she's glad her husband is so handsome – it taught some of the men in town a lesson or two about judging a wilful woman; the same who outsmarted them as a girl. Edward was one of those men.

"I know 'im?" he asks. They come over the last ridge and the house comes into view. The night is almost completely dark now, but they are close enough to home. The kitchen lamp has been left on for them, and the parlour window glows softly. Perhaps they are still in time to read with Mary and spend a few moments with Mrs Clarke before retiring for the night.

"You may have seen him around. He works as a teller at the bank. Tall, with dark hair"

"Oh, Eddie" he says, nodding. He knows of him now that she says where he works. "He doesn't look so great these days, I'm sorry to say"

"I'm afraid time has not been so kind to him. He took to enjoying liquor" Charles nods in understanding, guiding Buckle over towards the holding yard. "Not that it matters" she adds, smiling as he pulls the horse to a halt and dismounts. "I'm glad for my current choice of man"

Even in the dark he can see the cheeky grin she is giving him, her tongue held between her teeth. He looks up at her and smiles, half shaking his head. She looks so lovely. He can imagine her as a girl – sees her same features in Mary, and accounts for the points of difference, and in the dim moonlight her face looks so young. He can imagine her being a force to be reckoned with, good looks and wit, a head on her shoulders. Perhaps she had never intended to take over the business of her dead husband, but it is testament to her fortitude that she was able to pull it off so well, and continues to do so. Laura was never going to be the demure little woman her mother so dearly hoped for. Laura is so far beyond her time.

Maybe that's why they work so well. They meet in the middle.

He gently places his hands on her thighs, running them up to her hips to help her off the horse, and she rests her free hand - the one not holding the basket – on his shoulder. She plops down in front of him, still grinning, and he links his hands behind her lower back. Her hand runs through the hair at the nape of his neck and she closes her eyes as he leans in and kisses her. It's a chaste kiss, but affirming all the same.

"If you two stay out any longer you'll catch your death"

Charles rolls his eyes as they part, looking back to the open door where Mrs Clark is standing, a shawl around her shoulders, and a disapproving look on her face. It's all for show, really, though she'd never admit that. More than once Charles has caught her avoiding a room if they are having a private moment, and he likes to think that under all the bluster and practicality, Mrs Clarke is a romantic at heart.

"Coming mother" calls Laura, trying not to laugh at Charles' expression. He's really not having a good day as far as timing and interruptions go.

She waits by the fence while Charles leads Buckle into the pen, then he changes over the bridle for a halter so that he'll be easy to handle in the morning. He takes off the rug, rubs the horse's neck, and walks back to her. Once he has shut the gate and checked it's secure, she takes his hand and leads them towards the house, the rug slung over his other arm. Before they reach the light of the kitchen window, she stops him and tugs him to face her.

"You never have to worry about anybody rivalling you, you know that don't you" she says, scrutinising him in the dim light. He looks surprised by her assurances, as though the thought had never occurred to him, and though that's comforting she wants him to know for sure. She never wants him to entertain the notion she is pining for someone else, Walt or any other; she is too pragmatic to dwell on 'what if's, and too in love with him to dream of any different.

"I know, Laura. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just curious"

"No, I know, I know that. It's not the question – I will tell you anything you want to know, really I will. I love sharing my life with you"

They both smile at that, breaking the tension a little between them.

"I just never want you to doubt how much I am deeply in love with _you_" she finishes, squeezing his hand in hers. He only smiles at her in understanding, shifting just a breath closer and kissing her temple tenderly. She closes her eyes at such an intimate gesture, relief coursing through her at how at ease he is, and how confident he appears to be in the face of her silly insecurities.

"I don't doubt it" he whispers against her hair. "I never have"

"Good" she breaths. She nods and looks him in the eye once more, before setting to walk the final few steps to the house.

"Laura" he says, tugging her hand and making her turn back to him. He gets a look on his face as he studies her. She always feels small and yet so much larger than life under that look. "I love you too" he says seriously. "It shocks me sometimes, just how much I feel when I think about you – when I look at you. It's profound"

_As are your words_, she thinks, but only nods. She smiles, a sheepish little smile, and looks away over his shoulder. She'll never get used to the way he adores her so openly, and she'll never tire of hearing it, so she's preparing herself to be bombarded for the rest of her life by moments of utter speechlessness.

"You are an incredible man, Charles Lattimer, you truly are"

He just grins at her and starts walking forward. He doesn't know how to answer her when she says things like that, so instead he just moves them towards the warmth of the house. The night air is cooling around them and without his jacket he is starting to feel it.

He folds the rug neatly and places it in the pine chest by the door where they store the tools and Laura's gardening apron. He'll put it in the stable tomorrow morning while Laura and Mary hitch Turnip to the cart.

They can hear the chatter of Mary inside, still wide awake, and when they walk inside the kitchen Mrs Clarke is pulling a fresh loaf out of the oven, just as he knew she would be.

"The child hasn't done her reading yet" she says, her back to them both. Laura just smiles at her mother and squeezes Charles' hand before letting go.

"Mama, look, I've been practicing my stitches"

"Let me see, my sweet girl" she says, dropping her basket on the table and bending to inspect the needle work. "That's a great improvement, Mary, very well done. Now, if you are quick to get ready for bed, we can finish another chapter tonight"

Without further encouragement Mary is off, bustling in her room.

"Don't forget to wash your face" calls Mrs Clarke. Laura tries unsuccessfully to hide her smirk. Her mother gives her a funny look, noticing the jacket around her shoulder just as Laura slides it off and places it on a hook in the dining area. Charles doesn't see because he is depositing his boots by the door. Laura just gives her a happy look, and Mrs Clarke smiles a little bit too. For all his faults (encouraging her daughter's ways, being her employee, cussing like a sailor -) he is a genuinely good man. He takes care of her girls, and he respects her, and she cannot ask for more than that.

"I see you two decided to act like foolish youngsters and ride that horse back together" she says, with very little bite in her tone. She does think it's a bit silly, but honestly when she'd first seen them pull up out the kitchen window she'd almost laughed; it was sweet – the kind of gesture she can appreciate.

"Didn't want to waste the money on hiring another for the night" says Laura, picking up Mary's smock from over the back of a dining chair and hanging that next to the jacket. "I promise we were careful and went slowly"

Charles chooses not to comment, instead washing his hands in the basin where Mrs Clarke has left them a small amount of soapy water. His mind is too inappropriate to add anything that won't land him in the stables for the night. Mrs Clarke sees straight through that, of course, she's old not blind. But she leaves them be, figuring he's been tormented enough with the whole swearing thing earlier.

"Well, the alternative was walking. You got home in one piece, and that's all that matters" she answers, busying herself in cleaning up the fresh baking.

Laura smiles warmly at her mother, her eyes bright. She knows an olive branch when she sees one, and appreciates it; in the early days her mother would never have offered that, too caught up on wanting to know how Charles broke Laura's heart and then won it back again so easily. That whole time is water under the bridge now, and Mrs Clark figures she will never know the details of it, but Laura looks so blissfully happy that she doesn't press. Even good men make mistakes, and Charles has more than atoned for his sins since then.

"I'm going to go get out of this monkey suit before we read for a while" says Charles, politely excusing himself to go change. Rules of propriety dictate he must remain dressed until they retire for bed, much as he'd like to change into sweats and just relax. But he kept the clothes he wore on the train from the future, and wears them as his house clothes because they are less fitted and more casual than his business suits. Yet they are still decent enough to be in the company of his daughter and mother-in-law, so they work well, and he's glad for the option. There's something about wearing his night shirt and dressing gown that he just never took to, which makes Laura laugh.

"I think I will change too" she says, her hand touching her mother's arm as she passes.

Mrs Clarke just hums at them and lets them go. They pass Mary in the hallway, and tell her to get comfortable in front of the fire, and they'll join her in a moment. She bounds away happily, dressed in her nightgown, her hair down and ready for her mother to brush and braid for the night, her book tucked under her arm.

They are quick to change, not stopping to admire each other despite the will to do so. Laura does not share Charles' dislike for bedclothes, and gets into her nightgown and dressing gown, letting her hair out of its pins. Her mother won't like it being loose over she shoulders, but Charles has said more than once that she looks so beautiful with it down and he loves to see it that way. She will braid it later when they go to sleep, but for now she's inclined to leave it be. It makes her feel – what's the word he used? – _sexy_. Clad only in his light pants and dark blue tee-shirt, she thinks much the same about him.

He collects his sketching pad from the chair by the door as they leave the room, and she smiles.

Together they make their way into the living room. Mary is seated on a cushion on the floor, in front of Laura's favourite corner of the couch. Mrs Clarke is rocking lightly in her chair, knitting a scarf without really looking, humming contentedly to herself. It's a picture of domesticity.

Laura takes her place behind Mary, turning her to sit so she can brush and braid the girl's hair while she reads aloud to them. Charles takes a seat in the other single chair, sets up his pad, and begins to draw. He pays attention to the way his wife's hair falls over one shoulder, the way Mary's legs tuck under her where she sits, the way Mrs Clarke's hands look holding the needles. He is pleased enough with the composition outline that he starts planning how he might add colour, and contours, perhaps when he has a rainy Saturday to kill. With winter on the way he surely will get one.

"Is that another of your advertisements to send away, Charles?" asks Mrs Clarke kindly. Sometimes – when she's feeling particularly relaxed and generous – sometimes she takes up his offer to call him by his given name.

"Nope, no, this one's just for me" he says, smiling just a little at her across the room. Laura hears them, but doesn't look up, instead listening to Mary's reading.

"Perhaps one of these days you will be kind enough to show us these drawings you so often partake in" says Mrs Clarke softly, eyeing him over the rim of her glasses. If he didn't know better he'd think she was smiling at him.

Charles just grins to himself, nodding slightly. "I might even show you this one when it's done"

"I've seen some of his drawings" pipes Mary. "The one's he sends to the city"

"Have you been snooping again?" he asks, teasing her lightly. He doesn't mind her having a look through his sketch book. Any drawings that are private he keeps in a locked draw of his desk; there's nothing inappropriate for her to see. (The one's he's done of her mother, naked and sleeping peacefully in their bed, might be a bit more scandalous for her eyes)

"It's not snooping, it's investigating"

Everyone laughs at the answer, including Mrs Clarke, who tries to cover it with a cough of disapproval. Charles can't describe how much he loves his little girl, and he shakes his head at her tenacity, giving her a wink which causes her to giggle.

He looks down at his sketch – the basic representation of the scene before him – and then looks up again at his family. The scene in real life can never be put adequately on paper. The warmth from the fire, the hum from Mrs Clarke (some tune he doesn't know, though he suspects it's a hymn), the smell of bread that still permeates the house from earlier.

Satisfied for now, he puts down his pencil, stands, puts the pad where he had been sitting, and walks over to the couch. Laura has just finished the second braid on Mary's head, and she ties it off with a small white ribbon. She looks at him with a smile when he plonks down next to her, right against her side, grinning at her. Mary lets out a joyful shriek when he suddenly hooks his hands under her arms and scoops her off the floor – _come here munchkin_ - depositing her on his other side, his arm around her shoulders. She snuggles against him, as does Laura, and he tries not to look too smug, instead tapping the book page to get Mary to finish the last of her chapter. There is no other place on earth that brings him greater joy than being sandwiched between his girls.

As Mary starts reading again, he plants a tender kiss in Laura's hair and her eyes close in bliss, and from across the room Mrs Clarke can concede that she no longer frets for her small family. They are in the safest of hands. She goes back to her knitting before Charles can notice her, listening to her only grandchild read her newest book.

_So once more the little company set off upon the journey, the Lion walking with stately strides at Dorothy's side. Toto did not approve this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had been crushed between the Lion's great jaws. But after a time he became more at ease, and_

_presently Toto and the Cowardly Lion had grown to be good friends._


	3. What If You

_Part 3 in my Sweetest Things series. I have read a couple of other stories with this same type of confrontation, but I do think it's a relevant conversation for them to have. The song of the title made me think of this scenario immediately, although the meaning of the song is the exact opposite of this chapter. So, in the interest of 'disclaimer', I don't mean to step on anyone's toes with this story idea, and I have made it as unique and personal as I could._

_This story is dedicated to Megan429, who sent me the most beautiful message. Thank you very much, dear, and I hope you like it :)_

_As always, please enjoy, and let me know what you think._

_**What If You**_

She is humming to herself as she brushes her hair out, the two of them wrapped in lamplight in the late evening, late home from the paper. It's peaceful and quiet, the light patter of rain on the roof the only soundtrack around them.

Looking in the mirror at just the right angle, she can see Charles sitting at his own desk with a mirror set up in front of him, and a bowl of heated water set before him. She smiles at the sight, and places her brush down in its spot, content to watch him for a moment. He has been distracted today, but she's not sure why. He will tell her in his own time, she knows, but even so he's been quiet and she doesn't like it. She and Charles usually talk half the afternoon away when they work late together; it was strange to sit in such silence.

"Dammit" he hisses, tilting his neck to look at the reflection of the small, clean cut he gave himself. Using a straight razor was just one of many skills he had to pick up here, among a myriad of other foreign concepts, like no hot showers and learning to steer the horse and cart. He's not terrible at shaving, but some days his hand slips just so, and it can be so damn frustrating.

Laura smoothly gets up from her bureau, approaching him from behind and smiling at him in the mirror. Her hair is down and fluffy from being brushed, and she is dressed only in her floor length nightgown. It looks opaque in the soft light, the hint of her figure underneath. Her reflection is an absolute vision.

"Here, let me" she says softly, almost whispering. She gently takes the straight razor from his hand and coaxes his head back with a single finger. He arches his head and looks at her upside-down, grinning.

"So you can slit my throat and run off with my fortune?" he jokes, relaxing immediately as she lathers his other cheek to give the cut a moment to stop weeping. He holds a small square rag of linen to the spot.

"And just what fortune would that be?"

He barks a laugh at her and she grins in response, bopping him on the nose with the brush. He even leaves the little blob of froth right there for her own amusement, which makes her roll her eyes at him.

"You know, if you did this in the sunlight it would be much easier to see" she says, placing the brush down in its bowl as she addresses his reflection.

"I don't have the time in the morning. I'd only rush it and end up cutting my whole face"

She hums at him in vague amusement, not disagreeing. It's late – just before bed – but he likes to shave in the evening rather than in the morning. He is not so scruffy that it makes much of a difference anyway, and this way he can take the time with the unfamiliar technique. Plus he never has to leave the house with a bleeding face this way either, and for the sake of his dignity alone it's preferential.

Laura leans over his head to watch the blade carefully as she rests it at the bottom of his jaw and slowly scrapes upwards. The blade glides under her practiced touch, never once catching on his skin. Charles thinks she may have done this for Will too, but he's never asked and she never tells, and though she wouldn't lie if he posed the question, it feels irrelevant. Whether it was Will, Walt or her father who taught her, it's him sitting in the hot seat now, trusting that his wife won't accidentally kill him.

It's almost erotic, this trust exercise.

He watches her face as she watches her hands, and feels the glide of the blade as it moves in clean patches across his face, row by row of foam coming off and being rinsed in the bowl in front of him. She is relaxed but concentrating, doing her best not to nick him. Her eyes are crinkled just so. She looks stunning, he thinks.

"You are beautiful" he says between swipes.

She hums at him with a wide grin. "So you tell me"

He does tell her that an awful lot. And he likes to draw her a lot too, which she finds perplexing. She supposes it's a form of flattery – his never ending appreciation for her is wonderful. But she still feels a little self-conscious when she looks up from reading her book and there he is, tracing the curve of her neck or the crock of her finger, scrutinising every little detail. She is not so shy that she dislikes it, but she's never been in a relationship with an artist before. Suddenly all those love poems seem oddly voyeuristic. Every drawing is a piece of him in tangible scratches, forming his thoughts and feelings on paper. Showing his love for her.

She finishes quickly, and smooths her fingertips over every inch of his throat, cheeks, jawline, searching for spots she missed. Her touch is also very erotic; sensual. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to appreciate it, knowing that what's on his mind will probably kill this wonderful mood they are in. He sighs to himself as she leans over him to collect the bowl of frothy water, which she promptly tosses out the window into the garden bed below. Her mother would pitch a fit for doing that, but her window faces the other side of the property, so what she doesn't know won't hurt her.

Laura turns around to find him staring at a spot on the wall, his eyes unfocused, his mind elsewhere.

"You seem awfully pensive. Is something the matter?"

"What? Oh, no, I… no"

Her brow furrows and she walks back over to him, placing the bowl back and resting her hands on his shoulders. "Charles, what is it?"

He sighs, and hangs his head. He needs to discuss this with her, but it's so hard to get the words out. More than that, it's hard to figure out how to sort his thoughts – he's all jumbled inside. He stands and starts pacing the room next to her, his hands on his hips.

"I've been offered a permanent job by correspondence – my own cartoon column in a daily paper in the city"

"That's wonderful"

He stops, looks at her, then looks back to the floor.

"They want me to go to their offices to meet with the editor and pitch a character idea – have a running story or tone, work out the details, sort out a contract"

She is positively beaming at him, so proud that his freelance illustrating has yielded such a great result. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside her. He pretends not to see, and she can see he is so tense. She doesn't understand it.

"Charles, this is fantastic" she says, voice cheery. "What is the matter, you've worked so hard for this. Aren't you happy?"

"I thrilled. I mean, it's what I've been hoping for, sending off all my little letters to people"

"Then why do I get the feeling there is something more you're not telling me?"

He huffs to himself, his frustration growing, not sure how to articulate his anxieties in a way that sounds sane. Then again, given how he came to be in her life, perhaps Laura would be open to some insanity. He's not sure. Also, he's afraid. He knows he is confusing her, and that just frustrates him more.

"It's in St. Louis, Laura. Their offices are in the city"

"Well yes"

"In the city" he says again. "I'd have to go there. To the city"

"Of course you would – Charles, you're not making any sense" She shakes her head at him, watching him run a hand through his hair. Frankly he sounds a bit mad.

"On a train" he says, louder now, his hands stretched before him. He has stopped pacing, and is standing right in front of her. His eyes are wide, and a little bit wild, and she knows she's missing a vital link but she cannot figure out what. "I'd have to take the train to get there, Laura. I'd have to stay overnight"

"That's alright, we can manage that-"

"No, it's not the time, I mean… it's… the _time_"

She reaches a single pacifying hand out to him, palm open, so confused and worried that he's suddenly looking so panicked. This is not her Charles – this frazzled and flighty creature is so far removed from the man she married that she thinks he might actually be ill. She tries to calm him, unsure what he even means.

"Charles, you've travelled before-"

He suddenly rounds on her, his expression fierce and intimidating, his eyes bearing into her in a way that feels much less romantic than earlier. She is uncertain around this strange creature. She remains firmly in place, her shoulders instinctively leaning back just a fraction.

"What if I don't come back" he says, all but yelling at her, cupping her shoulders. He is practically shaking her, though he is not hurting her. His eyes are piercing, his voice cracks, and she is almost afraid of him. But he's not being particularly violent; he's trying to articulate a fear he doesn't understand. He is trying to make her see. He holds her in place until he can tell that the pieces have started to fall into place in her mind.

He huffs lightly, his face crumbling, and she softens under his touch as she finally understands. She cups one hand behind his neck, and one behind his back, and she pulls him close. He folds into her and around her – his face buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder, and his arms wrapped tightly around her back, clutching her nightgown between his fingers. She shushes him lightly as she sways him side to side. Tears well in her eyes as she rests her chin on his shoulder, and she looks up and blinks them away, refusing to let her grief show when he is so beside himself. This Charles is a foreign creature to her; reticent and unsure, and he is shaking with the fear of losing her. She can feel him tremble around her frame.

"I can't lose you" he says, his voice choked with emotion. "I couldn't bare it again"

She sighs at his confession, overwhelmed. They have never really discussed his discovery of her death – nothing beyond it being the reason he came back so frantically. They've never explored the terror of knowing she was taken from him; that he had cause it, if unintentionally. She thinks they should have, but it never really mattered before – in their safe little world in the country, they were happy and peaceful. There was nothing to upset the life they have made, beyond the daily routines and the occasional disagreement. It has been wonderfully idyllic.

"You are never going to lose me, Charles" she says. Her voice sounds much stronger than she feels. It sounds positively resolute, as though she's the one who knows the future this time. "You are not. Never, you hear me? That's never going to happen"

He sniffles as he pulls back from her, and he holds her face in his hands as he looks at her. He looks quite desperate, and just about broken, and she whimpers as he kisses her. She grips his shoulders and lets him look at her as much as he likes. Suddenly this voyeurism doesn't feel wrong, it feels necessary.

"You are my whole life, Laura. Being here, this home, this life, with you and Mary, and God knows I even love your mother too" She scoffs at him, smiling. "You are my world"

The way he is looking at her tells her much the same, and her eyes flutter shut for just a moment. She pulls him to her again, and this time the embrace is far less broken.

"You don't have the watch anymore" she tells him, her voice still strong.

"I know"

"That conductor told you it would be the last stop, didn't he? That Somerville was your last stop"

"I know, I know"

He sighs against her. She knows he understands all this logically – or as logical as time travel can be. But that's what makes this fear so potent; it's irrational and visceral. It can't be touched, and it's an unknown threat. They don't even know if there is a threat. If it was indeed the pocket watch that brought him here, then the possibility of him leaving again is gone; the watch is with the conductor, wherever he may be.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asks. If it will assuage his fear, she'll do it. After all, she has never been to the city, and he has promised her a trip. Of course, he did promise her a weekend for their anniversary, not an overnight business stop, but even so, she can manage that.

"No, no. I can't ask you to give up your business for two days because I'm being silly, your competitor will have a field day"

"I'll do it"

"I know, I know you would, Laura. And I love you for that. But it's more than just me" She strokes his hair as he continues, glad to hear he has come back to himself. "Say you come, and it does take us back - what then? Leave Mary with no explanation? No parents? Leave your life behind, stranded in the future? Or say we bring Mary with us too and all three of us leave – what about your mother, the paper. And, as you say, that's assuming it even does anything"

She pulls him towards the bed and they sit, hip to hip, still holding each other. He sighs to himself again and plants a kiss against her hair, and she watches closely to see the tension melt away; see the resignation take its place. There is no decision to be made, of course – he must go, and it's just not possible for the family to go with him for the sake of one night. But it worries her to see him so upset over it.

"It won't happen" he whispers, mostly to himself. She hums and nods against him.

"You must have faith, Charles" she replies softly. "The conductor brought you here to stay – he gave you a chance to come back, and you did. He does not seem like a cruel figure in your tale – he wouldn't allow you to make your decision only to take you away again. And it seems as though the watch is the key, and you no longer have it"

He nods against her again, nuzzling her neck in comfort, running his hands over her to reassure himself again that he is here with her.

"You must have faith in us, Charles" she whispers. The emotion in her voice betrays her; reveals just how much she has come to rely on the fact that he will be around. His fear has put her life into perspective, and for just a moment she had entertained it, and envisioned what it would be like to get the news that he wasn't coming back to her. She imagined standing on the platform, waiting for him, only for the station master to tell her the train was cancelled – that it was never coming. Watching every train after that pull in, and no Charles.

She clutches him just a little bit tighter, and they stay that way for a moment, just holding each other.

"I love you" he says. His voice is stronger. He sounds sure again. "I will come back to you"

"Of course you will" She pulls back just a fraction and runs her hand against his chest, patting it with her fingers. "You will have a wonderful meeting with the paper men, and broker a marvellous deal, and you will get back on the evening train and come straight back here. Back to me"

He kisses her suddenly, firmly. A promise. She whimpers against him, but leans in closer all the same her hands clutching at his shirt.

"You will come back to me" she whispers against his lips.

"Every time" he replies. She runs her fingertips over his face, searching – memorising, he thinks, or maybe this is just her own version of painting a picture to keep with her forever. He can see now that despite her strong voice and firm spirit, she is just as terrified by the thought of losing him. He can see in the way her fist still holds his shirt while her other hand traces his jaw; in the way her eyes flick over every inch within reach. She has already lost one husband. She already knows the pain of seeing an entire life stretch before her that will no longer happen; the empty side of the bed and the shirts that don't fit right but still hold his scent. He won't be the reason she feels that pain again. He vows that she will never again have to worry about bearing all her burdens alone.

He rests his cheek against hers and feels her sigh, her breath teasing his ear.

"Come on" she ushers, gently nudging him away and towards the head of the bed. He grunts in question, but she methodically stands and round to the other side of the bed, flicking the covers back. He gets the hint. Quickly he slides in on his side, close to the middle, propped on one elbow to watch her. She walks over to the lamp by his shaving bowl and snuffs it out – does the same with the one on her dresser – so that the only light in the room is from the small candle on her bedside to guide her.

He opens the covers and extends his arms, and she slips in beside him, touching him from head to toe, body aligned as close as two people can be. He pulls her even closer to drape her over the top of him, and she snuggles her head against his chest and sighs when his arms encircle her and squeeze affectionately.

She lifts her head, her eyes glowing in the faint light from the candle, and looks at him. He kisses the tip of her nose.

"You will come back to me, Charles" she demands.

"I will come back to you"

She kisses his chest, just under her chin, and then props herself there to watch him. His eyes study her, much as hers do to him. They stay still for a long time, with his hands running the length of her back, saying nothing.

After a long while his touch becomes more insistent, his caress at her back and sides more appreciative and less affirmative. She sighs, and blinks long and hard, and when she opens her eyes again she leans in and kisses him, her hands framing his face and holding him close. It's passionate and encouraging, urging him on, and when he starts to pull her nightgown up in bunches she moans against his lips but doesn't pull away. He rolls them over, and they leave the small candle burning.

They make love that night frantically and deeply – quicker than many previous times but no less meaningful. He needs the reassurance, she knows, and she is overwhelmed by him. They don't even get their clothes off – just shift them out of the way while their hands roam any patch of skin they can find and their lips stay connected.

She has to believe that the conductor has brought him here to stay, and she knows that their love is strong and secure; anchor enough to hold them together. As the night drags on, and they are finally resting back in each other's arms, she has no fear. She is physically spent and emotionally fulfilled, and as Charles wraps himself around her she thinks he is too.

She knows in her heart that nothing untoward will happen while he is away, and she dedicates her mind to worrying only for his job prospects. Tomorrow she will sit with him at lunch and run through ideas with him – help him build an original portfolio to show the city men. Tomorrow she will make him laugh, and kiss him in the back room while Fred is off stacking the first editions outside.

For tonight, she kisses his brow and snuffs the candle, and lets the warmth of his body lull her to sleep. Tonight they are together, and she counts that as blessing enough.


	4. The Willow

_Part 4 in the Simple Times series, in which I write stories about Laura and Charles after listening to Joshua Radin songs on loop. _

_Warnings for mentions of miscarriage, if that topic is upsetting for you._

_Shout-out to toulie and again to Megan429 for their wonderful messages of support, TheHampsterInMyMind and Liz for their kind and extended words of encouragement, and kouw, honestly, do you know me at all? I'm a sap! Never fear, Charles is still here._

_Thanks to everyone who keeps coming back for more. Enjoy._

"_Don't you worry, we'll be fine"_

_**The Willow**_

She shuts the draw stiffly, almost too forcefully, and Charles looks up from his sketch. He watches her for a moment with a furrowed brow – the angry jerks of her body, and the look of consternation on her face. She had braided her hair straight away tonight, instead of leaving it down the way she knows he likes. She had also donned her nightgown and her dressing gown, despite the fact they are alone in their room and the rest of the house is sleeping. It's not particularly cold, but combined with her attitude all day it gives a clear warning for him to stay away from her.

"Is something the matter?" he asks kindly. Everyone has bad days, after all, and Laura had once warned him of her temper.

"No, nothing" she says. She promptly shrugs out of her dressing gown and slides under the covers, snuffing out her candle.

"You sure?" he asks, tentative and confused.

"Goodnight Charles" she says with finality, shifting under the blankets in an obvious sign of impending sleep. "Turn out the lamps when you're done"

He almost gives some smartass reply, but decides against it. Obviously she's upset about something – maybe even something he did, though he can't fathom what – and he has been married before, long enough to know not to antagonise.

He is hurt, though; that she won't talk to him about whatever is troubling her. It stings a little. This might be the first time since he arrived that she hasn't been an open book to him, and he doesn't like the distance that is created between them by lack of communication. She had always said that he had to be open and honest with her about his feelings here. He had assumed that went both ways. He leaves it for now, but resolves to confront her about it tomorrow if she isn't in a better state.

He waits until he can hear her breath even out before he quietly packs his things away and turns out the lamps, sliding under the covers with her. He doesn't pull her into his arms or wrap himself around her; instead he stays on his side of the bed and ponders what could possibly be wrong.

The house has been going through a bout of colds these last few weeks. Everyone has been feeling miserable, including himself, so maybe it is merely a remnant of that. But she would speak to him if that was the case.

He sighs to himself and forces sleep, hoping that tomorrow will reveal some answers.

When he wakes it's to an empty bed, and he just makes it downstairs in time to see Laura dressed and walking out the door, Mary and Mrs Clarke seated in their nightwear at the table.

"Oh, Charles, I'm taking Buckle into town early, I have a meeting, if you would be so kind as to see Mary to school in the wagon?"

He just nods dumbly, processing the scene. She's out the door before he can question it further, and his housemates look at baffled as him. Mrs Clarke has a quirk to her lip that he doesn't like, but he can't decipher it at this time of day. Laura never takes the single horse with her; if they split their travel it's always him on the horse and the rest of them in the wagon.

Frankly he's finding these couple of days a real head-spin.

He busies himself in breakfast and in Mary's excited chatter about a school art project, and tries to ignore the knowing look from Mrs Clarke as he eats his porridge. If she has an inkling as to what's going on, he'd rather she just tell him, instead of eyeing him across the table.

He gets Mary to school and opens the paper without fuss, knowing Laura is at whatever meeting she arranged without him. Fred comes in a while later, and they get busy for the morning, and after a couple of hours he just accepts that Laura must not be coming in before lunch and lets it go. They are not so co-dependant that he will fall apart without her, and he trusts her to tell him what's happening in her own time.

Just before he goes home for lunch he stops by the post office, and there in beautiful thick parchment is a letter from St Louis, enclosed with a cheque for his first months' worth of cartoon sketches. The trip to the city had been remarkably uneventful and involved no time travel, and he laughs to himself now over it, glad to be making a regular salary. Glad to still be in 1897, if he's truthful. Because of the correspondence and the distance involved, he will only be paid every fortnight instead of every week, but it's still a decent amount and it will add to his nest-egg that he wants to set up for his family.

He makes his way to their small shed out the back of the paper where they keep the horses, and is confused for a moment to see Buckle there. The cart and Turnip are gone, but then he figures Laura must have collected Mary for lunch and taken them both home, so he just gets up on his horse and rides back to the farm, a grin on his face the whole way. Perhaps word of his first payment will put Laura in better spirits.

Charles bounds inside the house, ready to share his good news, only to stop dead at the scene before him.

Mary is sitting quietly at the table, not saying a word or even greeting him as he walks inside. From down the hall and up the stairs he can hear the mutterings of Mrs Clarke, and then the very soft voice of Laura. She sounds distinctly upset, and he is immediately on alert.

"What's going on?" he asks Mary gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him, and for the first time in their entire acquaintance looks every bit her eight years. She just shrugs under his hand. Having heard his voice, Mrs Clarke comes storming down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her expression is nothing short of thunderous.

"You'd best get in there and hold her tight, and then have a think about what you've done" she chides. Her words seem ridiculous, but have the effect of making him feel about five years old. He has no idea what she's talking about, and before he can ask her she has stormed out the back door and down the step to go walking in the garden to control her emotions.

"Is Mama alright?" asks Mary, her voice small, looking at him for answers.

"Why don't I go find out?" he says softly, trying to make it seem like he knows exactly what's happening when really he has no clue. Mary just nods and he places a quick kiss in her hair, unsure how else to comfort her as she rests her chin on her crossed arms, slouching over the table.

He scrambles upstairs, leaving Mary for the moment, and rushes into the bedroom to see Laura positively beside herself, hiccupping on the bed through her tears.

"Sweetheart" he says, bounding over and sitting down next to her, pulling her into an embrace. "What on earth is going on?"

She huffs a few watery breaths, calming herself, holding his sleeve. He is so far beyond confused. He pets her hair and holds his arms tightly around her, rocking them gently.

"Laura, what is it? Please talk to me. What have I done?"

She sniffs, and then straightens, blinks hard, and meets his eye. He thinks she's probably the strongest person he knows, considering whatever is happening has shattered her inside. He reaches up and wipes the tears gently from her face, and it almost breaks her resolve, but she pulls herself together and looks at him squarely.

"I went to the doctor today" she says.

A knot immediately forms in his stomach. She went to the doctor and she's crying. A thousand possibilities run through his mind, and all of them lead morbidly to the vision of him and Mary standing beside a hole in the earth, both dressed in black. He is almost physically sick at the thought, and her expression does little to comfort him, especially after the last two days of stony avoidance.

"I have been feeling poorly this last week, as you know"

"What is it?" he asks. His voice breaks a little.

"Well, it's not a flu as I expected"

"Laura, please, I can't… please, just tell me. Please"

Her demeanour crumbles a little and another bout of tears well in her eyes. She runs a hand down the side of his face, and he doesn't know what that means.

"I'm with child, Charles" she whispers. The fresh tears fall, and her expression looks completely heartbroken. Of all the things he was expecting, this was not it, and it takes his brain another moment to catch up to the fact that she's not dying a horrible death right here in his arms. It takes a few moments more for the reality of her condition to set it. She waits patiently for him to process it all, waiting for the anger and the worry and the upset.

All she gets is a bewildered blankness and a few long blinks. It could almost be comical.

"Did I just hear you right?" he whispers. "Did you just say-?"

She nods slowly, her lip quivering. "Yes. I'm pregnant"

She starts crying again as soon as the words are said, and he spends several long minutes holding her close and rocking her in comfort, baffled by her reaction. Beyond the reality of a child – _an honest to god baby, with Laura, here, in 1897_ – he tries to think of this from her perspective. Mrs Clarke had sounded so angry. No, not angry; terrified. And he knows she has a right to be – childbirth is hardly the safest experience to go through at the best of times, and he and Laura are not young parents. They wouldn't have been young parents in his first time either, but early forties seemed a hell of a lot more acceptable in the 21st century than it does here.

Laura's mother is not the only one scared of what this will mean. Suddenly Laura's tension the night before makes so much sense. She must have known it in herself.

"Laura, look at me. Look at me" He holds her face gently between his hands and makes her look into his eyes. She bites her lip. Her hands still hold his arms tightly, as though he might pull away. "This is good news" he whispers.

She sobs again, once, a kind of aching relief coursing through her as she falls back into him. He shushes her, and rocks them again, rubbing her back.

"I'm sorry Charles"

"Sorry? What for, you have nothing to be sorry about"

He pulls away to look at her, and she finally forces the tears to stop, wipes her eyes, and talks to him through her runny nose. All sense of dignity is long out the window, and it's not like he hasn't seen someone cry before. He pulls his sleeve over his fingers and helps her wipe her face.

"This wasn't… we never discussed this" she whispers.

"No, we didn't"

"I didn't even think it was possible, you have to believe me, I didn't-"

They didn't plan this. They didn't bank on Laura being able to conceive, not when she's just past forty and she had so much trouble having Mary. Honestly, he had never thought much about it, too caught up in his wonderful new family; his girls. There is still a decent chance she will lose the child yet, and that's one more thing to worry about. But even more frightening is that she will carry to term and he will lose her, or both of them. He feels equal parts terror and elation, and he's never had to balance those two before in his life.

"Laura" he interrupts. "I love you. I _love _you. I am so unbelievably thrilled, I can't… I know we didn't plan this, and I know this is terrifying. But I'm happy, Laura. I'm so damn happy"

"You are?"

She sounds completely confused. She looks like she doesn't understand what he's saying; like it never occurred to her that his reaction would be positive. All she can think about is how difficult labour was with Mary, when she was eight years younger. About what would happen to Charles if she died and left him alone here with her bitter mother and grieving daughter, and perhaps without their infant too. And if it does survive and she doesn't - the burden on him to raise a family by himself, as well as the paper and his new job, all in a foreign time. Or if they lose the child – can the two of them bare it? She feels horrible that of all the options, that one seems easiest to cope with, and that thought just adds to her grief because of course she wants a baby with Charles. It is the ultimate gift of love, to bare his child and call it theirs, and raise a family together.

She looks at him closely and sees tears in his eyes. But they are not tears of anger of grief; they are tears of joy. She never expected this.

"You are giving me the most amazing gift" he continues. "A blessing. And I know how dangerous this is, and I know that a thousand things can go wrong. Don't think I'm not aware of it Laura, I am, and it scares the shit outta me"

She is so shocked by his delight that she doesn't even notice his profanity.

"But a baby. Our baby"

He places a hand reverently on her stomach, right where her flesh has become firmer. She had tried to ignore it; tried not to think of the signs she has experienced three times before. When she'd gotten ill she'd first thought it was merely her turn for the household cold; then after a while a stomach bug fit her symptoms. But looking back she'd known. She'd known deep down what was really happening, and maybe that's why she'd ignored it so long. Denial was better than an unknown future.

But she watches her husband's face as he looks where his hand rests. He looks in awe. Gleeful, if a bit shell-shocked. She places a hand over his and he looks up at her, smiling.

"Thank you" he whispers, before pulling her into a passionate kiss. She embraces him tightly, overwhelmed by his acceptance and by how unexpected his reaction is, kissing him back. She'd been worried for nothing. She had twisted her fears into something irrational.

But Charles has made no secret of how much he loves her and depends on her here; he never holds back how much he adores her, and the thought that a child would change all of that for him suddenly had her concerned that their balance would be upended. She had focused too much on the negative, and until this very moment hadn't allowed herself to entertain the dream of watching him hold their infant for the first time as she looked on, exhausted but happy. Healthy, the both of them. It's a far more pleasant fantasy.

After a long embrace he pulls away and kisses down her neck, quick pecks, and his arms around her back. Then he is suddenly on his knees before her, his arms along the side of her legs as his hands cup her hips, her fingers threaded in his hair. He presses his face to her stomach, his lips right above where their child grows, and she can tell by his breathing that he is crying. Her eyes water again, watching him there practically worshiping this revelation. In that moment she wonders how she could ever think his reaction would be less.

He looks up at her, unashamed of his emotions, and runs his hands along her sides.

"I'm going to take care of you. Both of you"

"I know you will" she whispers, her hands caressing his hair.

"I mean it, Laura. Nothing is going to happen. I will do everything to keep you well. And we're going to be a family, and I'm going to make sure we have the best of everything"

She laughs at him happily; at how adamant he is, and how overjoyed he is, and how wonderful he finds this. She smiles at him for his seriousness, knowing that he can't see what she sees; that having him for a father is the greatest gift her children could ever receive; that they could be paupers and still it wouldn't matter. This richness of life – that which they discussed on the first day they met – is right here, in this moment.

"The only thing I need in this world is you, Charles" she says, cupping his face and pulling him up to kiss her.

"I love you" he says against her lips, and then again "I love you, I love you"

She merely hums against him, and he pulls himself back up next to her, his arm around her back and the other lightly caressing her stomach.

"I'm going to help you" he says.

"You will tell me all you know, from your time?" she asks, her tone imploring more than curious. She wants to know – anything that will see her and this child through this in good health.

"Of course I will. I don't know much, but anything that will help, I will tell you" She breathes a sigh of relief. "Starting with - this corset has got to go"

She pulls back just far enough to meet his eye, momentarily startled. He almost laughs at her, but doesn't, because the request it serious. She can feel his hand resting steady on her stomach, right on top of the bone in her corset. She never pulls it very tight, because the physical demands of the printing press and the farm demand able movement. But despite flying in the face of tradition, she still adheres to some of the normalities here, including the fashion. Especially when wearing her finer clothes, a corset is practically necessary to retain their shape and form.

"I mean it" he says lightly. "All that pressure on your stomach, on your lower back. You have to let your body be free to change the way it needs to. You're growing a tiny human"

She does laugh at him then, nodding, glad that he is being both helpful and light-hearted. She does want his help, but if he suddenly applies a heavy hand and demands bed rest and all nonsense that she just might scream. She's pregnant, not an invalid. Plus she knows his opinion on corsets – knows that he can't stand that she still wears one, even if it's much looser than younger women prefer. It's a testament to his time that he gets so angry over it, and the next few months will be a welcomed excuse to forgo the uncomfortable garment. Perhaps (though she doesn't say this) she won't wear it again once she has the child. This is a country town, after all, and she is an employed woman with an understanding husband and a farm to run. Few would notice, and fewer still would care.

She lets that go to the back of her mind for later consideration.

"Alright, then help me change" she says, standing and pulling him with her. She is in her maroon skirt and vest, so it's easy enough for her to remove her clothes herself, but he is happy to help while they talk.

He steps to the door and closes it, aware that Mary and Mrs Clarke are still downstairs. They haven't been disturbed yet, which means Mrs Clarke must be content with the quiet and is willing to leave them to discuss what they need to. She must have also reassured Mary, because the child hadn't followed Charles upstairs.

They don't have much longer before they should head back into town for the afternoon, but they can always take a pack lunch with them to the paper.

He steps back over to Laura and starts to help her undress, the moment intimate but not overly sensual.

"What else?" she asks, placing her vest neatly on the bed while he starts on her shirt buttons.

"No heavy lifting, or straining"

"I know that one" she says with a smile. "Some things are timeless"

"Good. Which means my lessons in the veggie patch might have to become a priority"

She laughs at him as he finishes with her shirt buttons, shrugging out of that too, and placing it on top of her vest.

"I mean it" he says. "I'm taking over the ploughing"

"Well can I at least dig up the vegetables?" she mocks.

"Sure. Just no pulling up stubborn roots. I know my way around a flower bed at least, I can lend a hand"

She hums at him in agreement. There isn't very much he doesn't already help with around the house – something else that smarts with her mother – so she thinks this might be a short list of prohibitions. But it's thoughtful of him to start immediately thinking of her various duties and what he can do to help. Things like chopping firewood and mucking out the stable – things her husband would have done had he lived – he has already taken over, so there isn't a lot of strenuous work for her to think about.

"And the printing press" he adds. "Any issues with press repairs or jammed levers any of that - you tell me, and let Fred or I sort it out"

"You know, for a man so intent on us being equals, you sure are putting down a lot of rules" she teases. He kisses her nose in reproach, but only smiles. He won't apologise for being protective, and she doesn't mean it as a complaint. She thinks it's cute of him.

"Have you been very sick?" he asks. He feels guilty, because he should know this answer, but for all the time they spend together there still might have been occasions she hid it from him.

"No, not very. I don't, usually"

He knows better than to pry – than to assume she's talking only of her pregnancy with Mary. She never told him how far along she was when she lost the first two, but it must have been enough to notice being pregnant in the first place; to have had symptoms. He is unbelievably sad for her. He is also momentarily scared for this life inside her now.

"What did the doctor say?" he asks, reaching behind her to undo the clasp on her skirt. She steps out of it and places it on the bed, quickly undoing her petticoat and stepping out of that too. She risks a look at Charles' face and almost laughs. He always seems flummoxed by the amount of layers she wears.

"That I am in excellent health for my age" she starts, rolling her eyes at herself as he reaches for the clasps at the front of her corset. It's not tight, so it's easy enough for him to do, and she watches him closely with a smile on her face. He only grins at the last part of her answer.

"And that I am perhaps a couple of months along"

"Months?"

She nods and hums, amused by his shock. Obviously women find out much sooner in the future, but for Laura the only real way to detect pregnancy is to monitor her own body and take a guess.

"And that nothing I've done seems to have caused injury. He did tell me to include more meat in my diet, so we might have to make some concessions to buy more"

Charles straightens and tosses the corset on the bed with a smug grin. "I might be able to help with that"

"Oh? How so?"

He reaches into his inside vest pocket and pulls out the letter and cheque, unfolding both to show her. She gasps quietly and then looks at him with a smile, her eyes bright. "Charles this is wonderful" she beams, her hand on his chest as she skims her eyes over the letter. "Your first payment. And my, you did work a generous deal, didn't you"

"This little extra money coming in will help us save for the little one, and for Mary's school. And we don't need to worry about buying you red meat. We'll get you all the iron and protein you need"

She looks at him confusedly, but he just shakes his head and leaves it be. He's no chemist, and can't properly go into detail about the discovery of dietary compounds and their effects. She doesn't press – just assumes it's another piece of random knowledge that he let slip. He does that sometimes; says something that he knows, but doesn't have the background knowledge to properly explain to her. She finds it fascinating that in the future people take so much information for granted. But then, Charles is always learning from her too, so perhaps they're not so different.

"Nothing but the best for you, Laura" he says, kissing her forehead. He remembers something about raw fish, too. Or maybe that was sushi. Either way, they don't eat much fish, and when they do it's just trout that they catch in the river. He thinks that should be fine. For the most part they eat fresh-made bread and vegetables from the garden, plus whatever meat they buy in town. The wonderful thing about eating here, despite the lack of refrigeration, is that it's all fresh and free of chemicals.

"And I know other people might say different, but will you do me a favour and not ride Buckle by yourself?"

She meets his eye again, agreeing with him but also asking him to explain.

"It's not the riding that worries me so much - it's the risk that you might fall off. I would feel better knowing you're in the wagon"

"Very well" she says, nodding in acquiescence. She isn't put out by his overprotectiveness – she thinks it's sweet, and besides, the reduced risks and better food is nothing she wouldn't have suggested herself at the appropriate time. But it's strange to hear him talk so openly about it; most men here wouldn't know the first thing about pregnancy, and yet Charles – who has no children of his own – seems to know a great deal about anecdotal care. She wonders for a moment about all the subjects that must be open to discussion in the future; all the barriers that get knocked down to make a man as open as him.

"I want you safe and healthy" he says to her. "Both of you"

He places his hand against her stomach, able to feel it for the first time with only her chemise between them. She hasn't yet started to grow, but the softness of her stomach has started to give way – taught and firm where before it was flat; a roundness there. He runs his fingers lightly against her, feeling the difference, and runs his hands higher to cup her breasts. They too are fuller – he had wondered if he was imagining it before, but they are. She hums in pleasure at his touch, but a clang from downstairs breaks their spell. Just as well, or they might have continued to undress each other and forget all about going back to work.

He meets her eyes, clouded with want, and grins. "Just you wait until later" he whispers.

She bites back a whimper and closes her eyes, turning from him to collect her discarded clothes. He helps her methodically redress, refraining from teasing her further. In a few short minutes her skirt, shirt and vest are back in place, sitting just slightly different from before. She's so slight that the corset hardly makes a difference, but he's happy to know she isn't wearing it any longer, even if she will complain that her bodice isn't fashionably slim.

"Let's go tell Mary the good news, shall we?" he says, gesturing his head towards the door. "She was very worried before. And your mother nearly took my head off"

She smiles a little bit. "She's just concerned. I think I scared her. And she didn't know how you would react to the news"

"Laura, she's worried for her daughter. I understand that now. And I'm going to do all I can to make sure you are well taken care of, so she doesn't have to worry quite so much"

She just nods at him with a half-smile and he moves to go to the door. "Charles" she says, stopping him. He turns and faces her again. "Does… _that_… does it… can we-?"

He grins at her and whispers. "Can we still have sex while you're pregnant?" he asks.

She blushes fiercely and nods, refusing to look him in the eye because she just knows he's almost laughing at her. She's heard stories that some people don't – that it can be harmful, or painful, or it can cause the cord to wrap around the baby's neck. She's not sure any of that is true, because she and Will still occasionally made love when she was pregnant with Mary, but what she's really asking is does he want to.

"Every night" he whispers, and she huffs at him in embarrassment. "So long as you feel comfortable, and we don't go swinging from chandeliers" he adds.

She covers her mouth and giggles fiercely, burying her face in his shoulder. He chuckles too and wraps his arms around her, kissing the side of her neck in comfort. It's good that their mood is much better, he thinks. It will be good for Mary to see them happy, and hopefully assuage some of Mrs Clarke's anxiety.

"We'll take it one day at a time, okay?" he says.

She nods against him and sighs happily, her stress relieved a little knowing he'll be with her all the way. She wraps her arms around him in return and enjoys his embrace, content to be joyful about this for just a moment.

"And Laura?"

"Yes?"

"I want you to consider… I mean, I know it's probably not done, but-"

She pulls back and looks him in the eye. "What?"

"I'd like to be there. In the delivery room"

Her eyes widen and her mouth pops open in shock. That's one thing she never even thought of.

"I know that's asking a lot, but I'd like to be there. Not just to make sure everything is okay, but because - the time I come from, that's what Dad does. He comes in to hold your hand and rub a cold cloth on your head and tell you how beautiful you are. I want to support you through everything, including the hardest bit"

Tears have welled in her eyes again, and she purses her lips to hold them in. He knows he's probably overwhelmed her, and he doesn't want to push it when they have to get back to work. But he does want her to know that he's not just here for the easy stuff, and he wants to help in every way. He has to hold himself back in his excitement – too much can happen in the meantime – but now that the shock has past, he's looking forward to being a father more than anything in his life.

"Just think about it"

"Okay" she whispers.

"Now come on, we have some news to share" he says, smiling. Ideally they would wait, in case anything went wrong, but it feels right to share the good news with just their little family. They will wait to tell friends, but Mary at least deserves to know, and Mrs Clarke obviously already does.

He takes her hand and leads them to the door.

"Just how mad will your mother be if it's twins?" he whispers to her on the landing.

She laughs at him and hits him lightly on the arm as they make their way downstairs.

Mary bounds up to them in much better spirits, as Mrs Clarke looks on with a wary look on her face. She must have heard Laura's laughter, and can see the protective way Charles holds her. Perhaps her fear is not totally abated, but she does take comfort in knowing that her son-in-law will do his utmost to see Laura in good health.

They all gather around the table to tell Mary, and for just a moment the whole house is joyful – no fears or worries, or memories of past regrets. Just the impending joy of new life on the way, and the related excitement through the eyes of a child. An overwhelming sense of family – of _rightness_ – that Charles spent his life looking for he somehow found here, and no matter the stress or concern he can't wipe the smile from his face.


	5. The Greenest Grass

_In terms of timeline, assume that the last chapter (The Willow) occurs about a year after the film, so March of 1897. This chapter is set about two months later._

_So after my last two info-dump instalments, I'm pleased to say that this little world is back to being happy and fluffy. Thank you to everyone's encouragement and kind words – you're all lovely, and so supportive of seeing some more For All Time fic. I've very appreciative. _

**The Greenest Grass**

She hears a shriek from outside, and looks up from the sink to watch out the window. She smiles at the sight. Charles has hauled Mary up onto his shoulder, and is running through the yard like a mad-man while the girl giggles uncontrollably.

She hears her mother huff next to her where she's drying dishes. "He'll throw his back out doing that" she grumbles.

Laura just grins and shakes her head. "Would it kill you to say a nice word about him now and then?" she asks, going back to the dishes, not particularly upset by her mother's ways. Not that her mother is overly nasty, so much as she always has a point to make, and since finding out about Laura's pregnancy it seem Charles can't do anything right. Laura knows her mother secretly loves Charles, but she's an obstinate woman. Far be it for her to actually admit her affection beyond grumbling acceptance and not poisoning his food.

Her mother just huffs again, and dries another plate. "Well, what good will he be around the house if he's got a bad back" she mutters. Laura outright laughs.

"You know, you could just _thank_ him for sweeping the kitchen yesterday"

"And give the man a heart attack?"

They both chuckle at that, finishing the last of dishes and stacking them neatly on the kitchen shelf. They take their aprons off and hang them on the hook by the door. Laura's belly is starting to show, making her skirts look a fuller around the middle. It always takes her mother by surprise to see it, and Laura makes a point to run her hand over her skirts to smooth them flat, caressing her child with a content look on her face.

She and Charles had gone to the doctors last week, and at Charles' request had tried to hear the baby's heartbeat with a stethoscope. The doctor had been confused to see a father in his offices – and Charles had understandably waited outside during the physical exam – but Doc Tibert had laughed and agreed to the suggestion with a shrug. It was difficult, because the baby is still so small, and Doc had warned they might not be able to pick it up yet without a trained ear. But after a few adjustments they'd both heard a tiny rhythmic flutter when pressing the chest piece just right, hard under her ribcage, and she'd promptly burst into tears. It had been surreal – different from feeling a baby move or kick. It was barely there, but they both heard it; a relief at this stage.

Charles, of course, has been nothing short of miraculous since finding out about the pregnancy. Some days Laura feels positively doted on – something her mother says is just as well – and it seems that every time there is something to be done, someone else has taken care of it before she can. She gets the feeling that Charles had a quiet word with Mary too, encouraging the child to help around the house, and though she doesn't want stress on her young girl she appreciates that he took the initiative. He's still so conscious of not overstepping boundaries where her daughter is concerned – aware that he is not her father and he must first earn her friendship.

Well, he's already done that in spades, so she's not sure what he's worried about. But it is good to see him take on a more paternal position. Charles is the only father Mary will remember, and he has more than earned the right to have a soft word with her about making sure her chores are done.

She is shaken out of her thoughts when her mother appears at her side with a glass of water, wordlessly handing it to her. She takes it with a smile of thanks, and her mother runs a hand down her arm in a rare show of affection.

Charles has assured her that by now they are well past the first trimester, whatever that means. He said that in his time, the first few months are the most dangerous – a time when parents are reluctant to share their news in case something goes wrong. Now that they are beyond it, and have heard the heartbeat for themselves (faint though it was) they are both quietly reassured that everything will be fine in the end. Laura grows bigger by the day, and can feel the flutters of kicks and hiccups already. The little signs of life always put a smile on her face. She still worries, but it's a far-away possibility in the back of her mind.

"Come sit out on the porch with me" says Laura to her mother. "And watch my idiot husband throw his back out"

Her mother huffs, but takes her shawl off the coat hook anyway and wraps it around her shoulders. Laura just smiles and shakes her head as they make their way outside and sit on the small deck at the front door. There was previously only one chair there for her mother, but Charles – in an effort to really expand his skillsets – had taken it upon himself to try his hand at building a second one. It had been his hobby project on weekends, having never really done joinery or carpentry before. _I'm not a farmer or a blacksmith or a farrier; I draw pretty pictures for a living. I want to learn at least one talent that will be useful to us here, _he had said to her. She had assured him that she didn't need him to be a jack of all trades; that he had already won her over. And besides, his pretty pictures bring them a second salary, so what more can she ask for. But she had understood his need to do something that she or Mary hadn't taught him – something of his own – and so she'd leave him be of a Sunday afternoon, under the open annex of the barn.

Needless to say, as Laura settles herself into her simple hand-carved armchair, his efforts have been successful. Simple, but sturdy; a positive start.

Charles is currently building a chest of draws for the nursery too. He wasn't confident enough to build the crib – thought it best to leave that to professionals – but he wanted to do something for the baby. And he let slip that he's already looking into desk designs for Mary, to give her room to study as she progresses in school. He wants to quietly encourage her to continue her studies as far as they will take her – is looking to send her to college when she's older, though they haven't said as much to Mrs Clarke. His support for women, he said, goes beyond just Laura and her newspaper. He wants the best for Mary, whatever she wants to do. Laura had laughed and then cried, and then thanked him in a long kiss.

"It's such a beautiful day" she hums contentedly, angling her face towards the sky as her hands rest on her bump.

"Summer is just around the corner" replies her mother, squinting over to the river. "Just as well. Did you hear what Beth O'Reilly's boy said the other day?"

"No, what?"

"Just got back from a trip to Springfield. Came home via Waynesville, though why he'd go that way I'll never know, adds at least a day to the trip"

Laura grinned. "He has a sweetheart there" she says, holding back her laugh as her mother spins her head back to look at her. "They met at college, and she's back home because of her father's ailing health. He wanted to meet her parents while he still can. I suspect he wishes to ask for her hand"

Mrs Clarke looks both stunned and gleeful. Laura knows she's just provided her mother with a week's worth of gossip, but honestly it was the sister, Ellen O'Reilly, who told Laura at tea the other day, so she's only paying it forward. It's not news worthy of going in her paper, but it is news to her mother.

"What did Daniel say?" asks Laura, bringing the conversation back on track.

"Well, he was just talking about his trip – silly boy should know better than to travel this state in May. But he said the whole area has been seeing tornadoes all season. Apparently one went straight down the main street of Marshfield – all but the bank and the post office got levelled"

Laura doesn't look overly shocked – she's been writing about the tornado threat all season – but she is surprised by the ferocity. None of her reports have spread that far, nor have they suggested a bad year like last year. "We were lucky to miss them" she says meaningfully. Their tiny town survived last year's destruction – surely the worst tornado storms in recent history – by only a couple of miles. She'll be glad to see the arrival of summer for that reason alone.

He mother just hums in agreement, nodding her head. Lucky indeed. They both look up to the sky – clear and blue with barely a cloud, the breeze just enough to require a cover-up. The last couple of weeks have been much warmer and calmer. That should mean a good change.

Charles and Mary are finished their game or whatever they were doing. The women watch as he and Mary fix the fishing lines, and then Charles gently coaxes Mary's hand back and swings her arms just right so that the line doesn't catch them.

"Good cast, kiddo" he says.

"I've got a good arm" replies Mary with confidence. "I can throw better than most of the boys at school"

"I don't doubt it"

Laura chuckles to herself. Her daughter's audaciousness certainly gets her in trouble often enough, but it is so intrinsically part of her that Laura is glad to temper it into something productive and useful, to foster its potential. Mary is so much like herself in that way; Will was so quiet and serene, and went about his business in such a gentle manner. Mary didn't inherit much from him, she's sorry to say, except perhaps a love of animals. Her daughter is all Laura. Secretly she hopes this baby will be a boy – one of each is always appealing, and the thought of having an heir to the farm is comforting. But Laura wants to see how much of his father he would inherit too. Not that it matters, of course, a healthy baby is all that matters and Charles has been adamant on that. But still, it's a fancy she holds quietly to herself.

"You seem pensive" her mother says, eyeing her critically through her glasses. She always worries these days – keeps a weather eye out for any signs of trouble or change in her daughter.

"Just enjoying the day. Listening to those two" she says with a smile, jerking her head. She would love to join them, but the brief rest is also welcomed; her back is starting to ache more from long days, and she always tired these days from long hours spent working. Any rest is a reprieve.

"And the babe?" asks her mother, her gaze softening just a little.

"He was kicking just before, but I think he's sleeping now" she replies, rubbing her belly as she looks down at it with a smile.

"He?" hums her mother, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. "You've already decided what you want then"

Laura just gives her mother a wry look, refusing to answer that. They've been very careful, her and Charles, to remain united in their neutrality on the matter of the baby's sex – they' don't want to add stress or consternation because of Mrs Clarke's input on the merits and pitfalls of each gender. "Slip of the tongue" says Laura instead, playing it casual.

Her mother looks like she doesn't believe that for a second. "It might be nice to have another man around the house" she muses, sighing off towards the yard, apparently looking at the day. Laura stifles her laugh, though by the look she gets, her mother was not intending to be subtle.

Laura understands that her mother's reasons for wanting a boy probably mirror her own; a son to take the farm, the chance to have a small boy back in the house after so long, the chance even for Charles to have his heir, though they both know he doesn't care about that. Women may be free and independent in the future, but at her age Laura isn't sure she has another twenty years' worth of strength to help her child fight this world. Mary will do well because of her own internal stubbornness. There is no guarantee that another little girl will have the same fortitude of spirit, and Laura won't always be around to fight her battles for her, and then teach her how to fight for herself. And Charles doesn't always see the forest for the trees here. Walt is getting older; his boys may not want to stay on the farm, nor are they obligated to work it for her. Laura would hate to have to start selling it after so many generations in the family.

But then, another little girl would certainly make this house a fire-pit for emancipation. Strong and stubborn Mrs Clarke, the working wife Laura, the vivacious Mary. Another little girl would fit right in, and though poor Charles would be well out-manned, Laura thinks he might secretly like to dote on his little women. And besides, she has proven that there is nothing holding a woman back from running a farm herself. Mary has shown great love and care for the animals, and a keen interest to learn. She loves to read, but hasn't shown much acumen for mathematics or science, or even history. Charles is adamant that both his children will see college, but it wouldn't surprise Laura if Mary came back to the farm. Perhaps her girls would run the place together.

In any case, there is no point counting chickens before they hatch. First she has to get through this pregnancy in one piece, and then see her child through those first delicate years. Either way, the future of this family will not be determine today.

Laura looks back over towards the river. Charles is bent low over Mary's shoulder, giving her advice no doubt, as his hand points out towards the water. Mary nods fervently, listening intently. Laura can't help but smile at how well she listens to Charles; how much she takes his word to heart.

"I've never seen that child be so still as when she's having a lesson from him" says Mrs Clarke, her voice unusually soft. Laura smiles, and tries not to let tears come to her eyes in her emotional state.

"They are two peas in a pod" she agrees, never taking her eyes away. "Mary just adores him"

"It is well that the feeling is reciprocated"

Laura smiles again, nodding slightly to herself. Charles does adore them all, it's true, and he is never reticent in showing his affection for any of them, even Mrs Clarke. Rarely have either of them met such a gregarious man, though Laura suspects he is different even in his own time; approachable and affable in a way that very few men are. She loves him more for it.

Charles looks up at that moment, catching her eye and noticing for the first time that they have an audience. He whispers to Mary again and she nods in concentration. He has one last look at the way she's holding the fishing rod, and then bounds up to the porch.

"Ladies" he drawls, stopping right next to Laura's seat.

"Mr Lattimer" replies Mrs Clarke, smirking at him through her glasses. "Still corrupting my granddaughter I see"

"You never know when you might need to catch a fish" he shoots back. Honestly, at this point it's practically a game between them.

"Are your skills so inadequate at providing food for our table that you must task the child?"

"Mother" chides Laura, but Charles just laughs, a big grin on his face, shaking his head with his hands on his hips.

"You heard the girl" he says. "Best arm at school. I couldn't possibly compete"

Mrs Clarke just gives him a reluctant smirk, which he returns before squatting beside Laura. Mrs Clarke looks out to the river to give them some semblance of privacy for a moment. Charles' hand lands on Laura's stomach as her hand caresses the back of his neck. They smile at one another – intimate and sweet – and he picks up her other hand and kisses the knuckles, resting it back with his own on top of her bump.

"And how is my little peanut?" he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to her stomach before Mrs Clarke turns her attention back to them.

"Quiet. Hasn't kicked since lunch" says Laura softly, watching Charles' hand snake this way and that, searching for a lump or a foot or something. She laughs at him. "Still too small yet to feel feet poking my ribs, the kicks have only just started. Give it time"

He grins at her, happy for the suggestion they will get that far. At night she sometimes voices her fears to him, so it's lovely to hear her be so optimistic about the future.

"No kicking Mama" he whispers to her belly, and then stands before their displays put Mrs Clarke's nose out of joint. She is surprisingly patient with them, but Charles is not eager to find her limit.

"Do you have any other plans for this afternoon, Charles?" asks Laura, taking his hand in hers where it hangs next to her chair.

"Nope. Nothing special. Thought I might do some woodwork if we have time, if you ladies didn't have anything else for me to do"

"I was thinking of having a nap" says Laura sheepishly. Her fatigue catches up to her during the week. She can foresee many weekends spent replenishing her energy. Charles and Fred have already worked out between them how to manage the second daily edition of the paper without her, but it's frustrating, being so drowsy and unable to continue her usual life. _You're making a tiny person_, Charles keeps saying, but it doesn't diminish her consternation over being so fragile.

"Okay, well, call if you need me" he says, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll go get Mary packed up"

"That child has sums to complete for Monday's class anyway. Send her up" says Mrs Clarke, hoisting herself from her chair and adjusting the shawl across her shoulders. Laura stands too, not yet big enough for it to be a struggle, and she watches fondly as Charles bounds back over to Mary. They hear the girl groan – obviously displeased with the mention of homework – and then she sulks her way up to the house, not bothering to stop and get directions from her grandmother before huffing through the door. Laura stifles her giggle. Charles walks past them with a grin, carrying the fishing poles around the other side of the house.

Laura and her mother step inside, and Mrs Clarke immediately walks toward the living room where Mary has taken her books.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me" says Laura.

"Do you need anything?"

Her mother looks open and concerned – soft in a way that she normally isn't. Laura wonders what she will be like with another baby in the house, and the thought makes her smile.

"No, I'm alright. I'll take a glass of water with me" she says.

"Make sure to keep your socks on – this house is too cold without the fire going"

"I will, mother" she says with a smile. "Wake me when it comes time to prepare dinner"

Mrs Clarke just grunts and walks away, and Laura goes to the window to watch Charles prop the fishing stuff against the shed and pull out his woodwork tools. He waves at her, and she waves back, smiling through the glass. She rubs a hand over her belly again, and then walks herself upstairs with a glass of water in hand. Doing as her mother says, she keeps her socks on when she lays down, and without her corset it is easy enough to drift off to the sound of soft voices downstairs. Charles will probably find her later, perhaps lay down with her a while and snuggle. Saturdays are such lazy days in the house, and though Laura is loath to waste good sunlight, before long she has nodded off. The peaceful days and easy flutters in her stomach are easing her anxiety one day at a time. She even dares hope that all will be well. It's a quiet thought, but it's there.

_A/N: I did a lot of reading to find out about the weather and towns of Missouri (where I assume these guys live). I've also been doing the most amazing amounts of reading on pregnancy, for someone who is years away from ever having my first (my internet history would frighten my mother to death). If anything doesn't ring true for anyone who knows better, just let me know so I can edit._


End file.
